


The Wreck of our Hearts

by Saphirott



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Sam Winchester, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sibling Incest, Top Dean Winchester, Were-Creatures, Wolf Instincts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27590668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saphirott/pseuds/Saphirott
Summary: A hunt where everything goes wrong brings unexpected consequences for Dean. Transformed into something he doesn't know and that awakens feelings that shouldn't be right, he tries to take Sam away from his side, hiding his reasons for doing so. Sam will discover everything in an unexpected way and will have to do the impossible to get Dean back.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 13
Kudos: 122
Collections: 2020 Supernatural Reversebang Challenge





	The Wreck of our Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jessie_cristo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessie_cristo/gifts).



> Hello, everybody!
> 
> My first Reverse Bang! I'm really excited about this. I have to say that I had a lot of fun doing it, except for a few moments of crisis. 
> 
> I've been immensely lucky to have a wonderful plot by jessie_cristo which has certainly made everything much easier. 
> 
> I just hope I don't disappoint my artist or anyone else who comes along to give this story a chance. 
> 
> Thank you so much Jessie, for the video that started it all and for all the additional art you've done for this story. It's so great! I ask you all to stop by and give her your love at the link below. 
> 
> Thanks a lot more to Cynthia, (cyncitymojo) for agreeing to be my Beta, (I'm Spanish, for those of you who don't know it and my English still has a lot to improve), I'm sorry I gave you so much work, how many commas did you put in? Really, I have no words, it has been a pleasure working with you. 
> 
> Thank you both very much, it would not have been possible without you. 
> 
> Thanks also to Nic Barret, for all the hours he had to listen to my comings and goings until the whole story was structured. 
> 
> I have nothing more to say, only that I hope you like it and enjoy it as much as I did writing it.
> 
> Art link: [ Ao3 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27224983?view_adult=true)

****

**The Wreck of Our Hearts**

**By: Saphirott**

**Based on Jessie Cristo prompt**

  
  


It is everywhere, all around him, intoxicating and exciting at the same time. A strange mixture, it's gunpowder, it's that reminiscence left in the fingertips by the pages of old books, wood, vanilla, and almond, it's the damp ground after the storm. 

He drowns in that essence and at the same time, he can't get enough of it. It travels through his system, seeping into every pore of his skin and setting everything on fire in its path. He closes his eyes looking for a control that he already knows is lost, swallows saliva and the saliva in his mouth tastes the same, a taste that pulverizes his throat.

“Dean!”

He opens his eyes and sees it, a faceless, athletic, beautiful body, bathed in sweat, trembling before him, so needy and willing that he can’t stop a grunt of desire from escaping his lips. He sees it, but more than seeing it he seems to feel it under his skin. He has to reach it, the smell it transmits burns his skin, he has to lick it, he has to touch it, he has to fuck it.

“Touch me.”

It is a plea, almost a lament, and he can hear the urge in every syllable of that word. He bows and slides his tongue in a long lick, starting at the navel and going up to the chin, by the time he reaches the end his mouth is watered, high on its flavor. It is sweet as nothing in the world and Dean grunts of pure satisfaction with every drop he can get. 

He is not thinking when his hands hold those mile-long legs, when he raises them and bends them looking for a space that he knows is his by right. He is not thinking when he sinks in that wet heat that wraps his dick as if it were the most exquisite of silks. He thrusts and the body under him squeezes him, the body under him groans and Dean is left without air, because heat, smell and every one of those groans evaporates every last drop of oxygen around him. 

His hands travel anxiously going through every centimeter within his reach, exploring, pushing, sinking his fingers as if he wanted to caress it down the bones. 

“Dean!” moans the body, with a clear voice between gasps.

He thrusts harder, spurred on by the need involved in that demand and by the heels that stick to his buttocks trying to bring him impossibly closer, deeper, more, more. Sweat bathes them, mixing their essences while their bodies slide together in unison, following a rhythm that both feel in their bones, in their temples, and in their hearts.

Dean feels his brain on fire, his dick boiling, and his knees burning from so much pushing. His mouth runs through the other body with the desperation of feeling starved, deprived for so long of something without which he does not know how he has been able to live until now. He licks, bites, pushes, and licks again. His nose sinks into the joint of the neck and shoulder of the other body and all he can think is _"mine, mine, mine..."._

And he leans forward, puts his arms around it, and covers it with his body because he can't let anyone see it, because he feels he has to protect it from everything and everyone, because he feels he could kill anyone just for looking at it. 

He feels its pulse under his lips, pure, primitive, vital. He feels how the other gives him more space, exposing the wide column of its neck in a silent consent that makes him lose his sanity, thrusting almost without rhythm while he cannot stop licking that point of its neck with the same clear dedication of a devoted kneeling in front of an altar. Ten meters of legs are wrapped around his hips and he almost feels like crying because of the need, the desire, and the intensity. 

“I am yours, Dean. Do it.”

“Mine...”

_"Mine,"_ is all he feels as he spills himself inside it with such force that he has to close his eyes so as not to get dizzy. _"Mine,"_ is how he feels when he sticks his teeth into the tender skin that tastes like sweat, sex, and blood when his teeth penetrate more than he would have thought possible. The body beneath him shakes and Dean digs his teeth in harder, his senses dulled by the metallic but somehow sweet taste that sticks to his palate. He sinks back into it, hotter than ever, riding in unison an orgasm that melts their bones. 

“Dean...”

And there is sadness in those four letters, and Dean feels that something is terribly wrong, he feels that, although he doesn't want to, he must let go. And he also feels afraid to look, afraid to lift his head and open his eyes, because he senses that now there is a face that he must confront. 

“Dean...”

His heart stops in his chest while he exhales air that he does not know he was holding, withstanding one-thousandth of a second more to face the truth. He opens his eyes and feels that his whole world is falling apart when his brother's changing eyes look at him full of infinite sadness. 

“Dean, what have you done?” 

“Sam...”

He can say no more, hampered by the knot that suddenly sticks in his throat. Disbelief is manifested in that face of cheeks still fevered by sex and covered by disorderly locks of hair moistened by sweat. The answers stick to the back of Dean's teeth and the disbelief turns to pain, betrayal, and rejection. 

Dean feels a tightness that burns his chest, squeezes his lungs, and stops him from breathing. The taste of Sam's blood lingers in his mouth and when he looks at the tender wound on his neck he feels like he's going to throw up until he sees the lunch his mother made for him on the first day of school. Wobbly and nauseated, he struggles to get rid of those legs that still surround his waist in his hurry to get to the bathroom and, unaware of how, his face slams into the floor with a thud, muffled by a carpet that has seen better times. 

Dean shakes for a moment, confused and anxious. The room is silent except for the soft snoring coming from the other bed. There are no legs at his waist, just a mess of sheets and blankets, and he's not as naked as he thought. 

It has all been a dream, a nightmare rather. He closes his eyes trying to calm himself down and, as he does so, Sam's eyes appear before him again, and with them everything Dean had done to him. _"It's a dream,"_ he tells himself, but he knows that there is more to it, that there is more. And knowing that makes the bile rise up to his throat burning everything in its path, rushing him to fight now with the blankets so he can get to the toilet before making a mess that adds more shame to the one he already feels.

Dean throws up everything he's ever eaten, hugging the toilet and feeling disgusted just to exist. Tears pool in the corners of his eyes from the effort and he can't help but bellow like a wounded animal when there's nothing left to throw up, but the vomit reflex continues to torture his body. 

“Are you all right?”

Sam's voice comes to him from the door and he doesn't have to look up to feel his concern. He hears it, feels it, and smells it. Yes, he smells it under all those aromas that occupied his dream and that, from a few hours to this part, seem to remain stuck to his nostrils. 

_"No, I'm not well, Sammy. How can I be well? Don't you realize what I've done to you? Don't you realize what I want to do to you? You are my brother. Damn it. My brother!"_ Anger and despair are screaming in his mind, but he manages to keep them in there, replacing them with an aching grunt as he tries to move to a more comfortable position, but without moving away from the toilet. 

“I'm fine,” he answers in a doughy voice. “Something I ate last night must have made me sick. Man, those burritos...”

Tries to invent a smile while leaning his head against the cold tiles on the wall, with his eyes closed so he doesn't have to look at Sam. He fails miserably.

Sam takes a step into the bathroom and Dean tightens up like the strings of a guitar about to break. The sound of running water does not silence the accelerated beat of his own heart, nor Sam's quieter one. Both echoing in his ears as if he were in a church steeple. 

“Here, try this, it will help you.”

Sam is just a step away from him, holding a towel wet with cold water, and Dean wonders, annoyed, why he has to be so nice. The smell is more intense now and stopping breathing is not a viable option, even though he wants it more than anything. His body reacts with a new gagging of something that is no longer food but a green, bitter liquid from a viscerally empty stomach. 

He needs Sam to go away, to get away so he can breathe again, so with a trembling hand he reaches for the piece of fabric and brings it to his face whispering a thank you that if Sam had not been so close he would never have been able to hear. 

“Come on, let me help you, you look like shit.” 

Sam leans over, holding his arm with the intention of lifting it, and Dean feels the contact like an electric shock. Something in his head swirls with the force of a whirlwind, a wild energy that stirs restlessly and fills his ears with _"Mine, mate, mine.”_

“No!” he grunts, shaking Sam off. 

Sam looks at him with a scowl and is not at all willing to leave him alone. 

“I'm not a kid, Sam. You don't have to hover over me like a chicken taking care of its chicks.”

“What's wrong with you? I'm just trying to help you.” 

“And I'm telling you I don't need your help. What part of that sentence don't you understand?”

Sam's eyes open in disbelief, pain, and annoyance. Dean channels all of his despair into an arrogant gesture that breaks Sam's patience.

“You know what, Dean? It's too late for all this shit. Fuck you, I'm going to sleep.” 

Dean holds the gesture until he hears the pitiful crack of the bedsprings, until the pressure fades and the smell softens allowing him, at last, to breathe. He's covered in sweat and his mouth tastes like shit, the fatigue seeping into his bones, but there's no way he's going back to bed that way. 

Not without effort, he gets up from the floor, groping the bathroom door shut, looking for privacy he never needed before. The worn mirror on the wall gives him back a distorted reflection where some crack adorns the polished surface. He approaches and can't see anything different. The same tired look, the incipient beard, wrinkles too early for someone his age, but not for someone who lives in the shadow of a world unknown to all. A world in which getting old is not really an option. 

He doesn't see anything different, but he knows that something has changed, that he is changing. He feels it inside and it scares the hell out of him. His eyes travel through the reflection until they find the gauze attached to his shoulder and different parts of his hips and chest, covering deep, though not serious, wounds resulting from his last and failed hunt, just two days ago. 

With trembling fingers, he lifts first those on his hips and his breath gets stuck in his chest when he looks and where there should be a deep and ugly cut there are only simple scratches, as if a hyper-excited puppy had jumped up to greet him. 

_"Only what is not human can heal like this."_ And he seems to hear his father's voice setting the standard. He can see his look, cold and severe, making sure it penetrates them until it is tattooed on their bones. _"Is that clear?" "Yes, sir."_

The almost vanishing trace of the bite on his shoulder, the one he hasn't said a word about to Sam, spurs his mind towards an imminent and unplanned end to his life. If there is one thing he is clear about, it is that he does not intend to become something he has dedicated his life to fighting.

But, if he is not human, what is he? If he squeezes his brain any more, he's going to get brain juice out of his nose. Nothing seems to make sense. What brought them here were a couple of corpses whose hearts had left an empty hole in their chests. The clues reeked of werewolves and the lunar phase only confirmed their suspicions. And it is precisely that, the lunar phase, that makes none of the pieces of his puzzle fit now, which is melting down every single one of his neurons, besides Sam. Because the full moon still looks proud in the sky and if his wounds were the product of a werewolf, by now he'd be ripping out the heart of some poor bastard instead of being here, rambling about a damn satellite and its possible influences. 

“Damn it!” he grumbles in front of the mirror, withstanding the urge of crashing his fist on his reflection. He walks to the shower and doesn't bother to wait for the water to warm up, every drop feels like a pin piercing his skin and for a few seconds diverts his attention, but the rest is just an illusion. 

All his senses have intensified in these hours, at first he was not conscious of it, but now the truth hits him with the force of a freight train. He does not have to make an effort to listen to the hackneyed phrases with which the guy in the cabin, located thirty meters from his, is trying to convince his recent conquest to accept to participate in some perhaps dirtier game than she was thinking about when she agreed to accompany him there.

He is surprised by the growl that comes from the bottom of his throat at the displeasure it causes him, as if it were not his, as if someone else had put it there. This is another sign that confirms for him that he is changing, this feeling that something else lives inside him, a presence that he still cannot define, but that seems to be rooted in his soul. 

He dries off, trying not to think, trying to reach a calm that he feels is necessary to be able to see things a little more clearly. He walks to bed as the tiredness makes him take a deep breath, and there it is again, Sam bouncing off his lungs as if nothing else existed. 

The first lights of the day filter through the worn curtains, still too dim to illuminate the room. They are accompanied by the unmistakable roar of the Impala's engine leaving the parking lot. Sam stands up like a spring, his brain more awake than his body as he looks around at the empty room. 

He keeps to himself his swear word, which makes no sense if no one can hear it, and looks at the watch on his wrist to confirm what he already knows - it's too early for Dean to have gone out for doughnuts and coffee. He runs his hand over his face trying to pull the sleep's veil aside, but unable to avoid a huge yawn. The floor is cold under his feet on the way to the bathroom, and as he settles his business he can't stop thinking about Dean's strange behavior, not only about what happened a little over two hours ago, but also about how he has been acting since the last hunting fiasco. 

He can understand that Dean is upset or even angry, he is too, those beings should not have run away, even if only eventually, what he cannot understand are the mood swings, the tension that Dean clearly cannot disguise, and that expression that tells him that Dean would rather have his ass bitten by a Hellhound than share the space with him.

He washes his face and, as he watches in the mirror as the drops slide down his face, he tells himself that he is wrong, that he shouldn't think that, that he is extrapolating memories from a far past, that Dean has long since stopped looking at him like that. But doubt is a bitter poison and the pain of how Dean had answered him the night before is too much like the one he has felt most of his life. 

The pain that he had tried to cheat by running away with the excuse of finding a normal life, which he had thought he had overcome for four years and which, although he was not aware of it, he discovered had been even stronger during that time. A revelation in the middle of the night, divine or cursed, depending on how you look at it, cried out with only two words in the center of a kitchen: “Easy, tiger.”

Pain mixed with fear. The fear that Dean will finally discover all the wrong feelings that poison his soul, the fear of the unmistakable rejection that would follow, the fear of being taken away from the only thing that has been stable and real in his life. Dean.

He feels the unease settling in his gut, blatantly ignoring his efforts to get it out. With a tired sigh, he finishes dressing and turns on his laptop trying to focus on the issue that keeps them here. 

Two hours later, the familiar sound of the car that has been their home most of their lives dies on the other side of the door. Sam straightens up in his chair, elbows firmly on either side of his laptop and eyes glued to the screen, pretending concentration that he has long since lost, but totally determined to ignore Dean.

The door opens and Dean appears with a paper bag in his hand. Hardly a greeting falls from his lips as he approaches the table where Sam is, halfway through he seems to think better of it, leaves the bag on one of the beds and sits on the other, as far as the small space allows. 

Sam clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath, counting mentally to ten while his fingers glide nimbly over the keyboard, working on nothing, waiting for a word, an explanation, a gesture that doesn't come. The silence becomes a heavy presence between them, the fuel that feeds that inner rage that Sam has tried to deal with since his early adolescence. His patience is exhausted, and if Dean doesn't say anything, he swears he's going to pull out his gun and shoot him, so he looks up from his laptop and looks at him, a raised eyebrow and questioning gesture. 

Dean is sitting on the edge of the bed, his gaze lost in the trees on the other side of the window as his knee bounces tirelessly up and down. His hands cling to the edge of the mattress and his knuckles are white, as if he were trying to hold on to a small boat about to capsize. 

“Dean?”

His body flinches and tightens. For a second, when he turns to look at Sam, the jade in his eyes gives off a flash of fear and confusion that makes Sam's heart shrink in his chest. But it is only that, one second, immediately after, his defenses are again standing, covered with his patented disinterested and arrogant expression.

“I brought you breakfast.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

Dean shrugs his shoulders and Sam's eyes could be rolling around in his head due to the force with which he rolls them. 

“Why don't you tell me what's going on? What happened last night?”

“I told you something made me sick.”

“Sure. Come on, Dean. I've seen you eat things that would give indigestion to a flock of vultures. Talk to me. You've been gone over two hours and it's barely seven in the morning. What were you doing?”

_Damn it, Sam! You're not going to stop, are you? You couldn't just leave it behind. Running away, that's what I was doing. Is that what you want me to say? I was running away from you, from these feelings that I thought I already had under control. I'm sick Sammy, I always have been. Even Dad noticed it. "He's your brother, Dean. Take a good look at him. He's your brother. You saw him born, you took care of him, you held him, you taught him to read. You can't, you shouldn't. Promise me." "Yes, sir." Do you even know what it really took for me? I couldn't bear to have you in front of me and not be able to touch you, I had to avoid you and at the same time pretend that it wasn't killing me inside_. 

_And now, now everything is worse. Everything has intensified by ten and I don't know the reason, I don't know what I am, what drives me constantly towards you. The thing that screams at me to get out of that chair and make you definitely mine. My head is going to explode, damn it!_

“Roasting the bean for that perfect girlie coffee you love so much, Samantha.” 

Sam looks at him as if he's drawing up a plan to kill him, and Dean doesn't doubt that he is, but he doesn't care as long as it keeps Sam away from him, at least until he finds out what's happening to him. 

Sleep had eluded him when he returned to bed and he finally thought that driving might clear his mind for a while. He had stopped at a gas station and bought a pack of cigarettes without knowing why, but he was pleased that the smoke burning his lungs had partly drowned that constant presence of Sam under his skin. He'd driven around aimlessly as he went over the hunt in his mind over and over again. 

That bar had been crowded and, according to his research, was the right place and all the victims had been seen there. He and Sam had entered separately with the idea of covering more space and attracting less attention. Sam occupied one of the bar's stools and he preferred to move around the pool tables in the back, studying the nerds who played on them. If his target didn't show up, he could make the night just as worthwhile with the group of presumptuous college kids clamoring to be swindled. 

Dean had smiled in advance until a sneaky gesture from Sam at the bar caught his attention. Following the nod of his head, he spotted a couple of guys sitting at a high table. Both were watching the crowd sway and vibrate to the music, carefreely oblivious to the dangers known only to a few. The men's attention seemed to be focused on a small blonde who had apparently not yet achieved her conquest and moved among the people, displaying her charms. 

The younger man seemed uncomfortable in his chair, about to jump, while the elder remained calm, not taking his eyes off his prey. With a signal that confirmed which one Dean thought was the boss, both got up and, following the same strategy as he and Sam, walked to the dance floor separately. The girl exchanged smiles with a young farmer who must have been feeling lucky already, whispered in his ear as she let her hand casually slip across the wide chest of the excited boy, who at that point would follow her anywhere, and that was something she seemed to agree with completely because she took the boy's hand and directed his steps to the exit. 

Something happened later that made them doubt whether they were really following the right track, and that was what led them to the unexpected failure. The girl's gaze met that of the older man and her face changed in a flash. That apparent knowledge between the two led Sam and Dean to think that perhaps they had some relationship with each other and this was just a simple scene of jealousy or betrayal. Still, with the basic understanding and wordlessness of years of working together, they decided to stay on top of the situation. 

The girl turned to her recent conquest and the boy's disappointed gesture said it all. Getting lost in the crowd again, she seemed to be heading for the back door, closely followed by the other two. At a gesture from Dean, Sam went out through the main gate, while he did not lose sight of his targets. 

What Dean took to dodge the crowd was long enough that when he finally reached the alley, no one was there. He cursed his luck and sharpened his ear as he moved stealthily through the dimly lit space that was home to nothing but trash and rats. The scream urged him to move to a small nearby alley that remained hidden in the shadows. 

The girl struggled pointlessly against the two men who overwhelmed her in strength and size, though to Dean's amazement she did so with surprising energy. Without thinking twice, Dean jumped on the attackers, knocking down the youngest one with his body. Surprised by the unexpected attack, the older man diverted his attention and the girl did not miss the opportunity, with a strong push she knocked the man off his feet and ran. 

Dean was still fighting with the younger one, so he couldn't do anything when the other one recovered seconds later and went back out behind the girl. That's the moment Sam chose to appear, looking worried and evaluating the situation. Their glances crossed in a silent question. "Follow them! I'll deal with this one," Dean had shouted and Sam had obeyed. 

The fight had been rough, the guy seemed inexperienced, but he had a strength and agility that more than made up for his lack. The blows had gone both ways and Dean was aware that he had suffered several cuts although he could not determine how they had been produced. Then came the bite, the pain was so intense that it took all the air out of his lungs. Something short-circuited in his brain at that moment and he could only see the face of the man looking down on him, between astonishment and horror, before he felt his body burn from the inside out. When he opened his eyes again, he was alone in the alley. Sam returned a few minutes later, with his hands equally empty, everything seemed to have vanished into thin air without a trace, and apparently it continued that way. 

“Do you have anything?” he asks, looking meaningfully at the laptop on the table. 

“Dean!”

“Do you have something or not? I'm starting to get sick of this place.”

Sam stubbornly keeps his eyes fixed on Dean's, but the white neutrality of his brother's face tells him he's not going to get any of the answers he's hoping for. With his jaw so tight that it hurts, Sam turns his attention back to the screen. A quick glance at the open browser tabs and he feels his frustration building.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

And Sam feels that this moment is like so many others when he was a child, when his father would relegate him to old libraries where it was impossible to find anything useful and then, when Sam couldn't offer any answers, John would watch him with that expression, which was not disappointed but as if he felt sorry for him, as if he thought Sam was an idiot. 

Sam swallows the rage and it is increasingly bitter. 

“Nothing.” And it is a sentence that does not admit any discussion. “There are no new victims, no reports. Either they've run away or they're staying under the radar. After the fight the other night, I doubt they will act for a while, at least not here.”

Dean nods as if Sam has just confirmed the time, gets up and starts packing up his stuff. 

“What are you doing?”

“We're leaving.”

“Just like that? Are we going to let those werewolves go on their way?”

“And what do you want us to do, Sam?” Dean strikes back, his face devoid of emotion, but throwing things into the bag as if he wanted to stone it. “You said it yourself. There's nothing, we don't have the surprise factor anymore. Those mutts already know that we are here and although they are monsters they are not stupid. They're not going to show up and that's counting on them still being in this shitty town. I still can't believe they got away.” 

Sam feels the last sentence as an accusation, one that makes him jump out of his chair with the same determination with which he would enter a nest of vampires, machete in hand and a murderous gesture. 

“It wasn't my fault,” he says, pulling Dean's shoulder to force him to look at him. 

Dean shrinks under his palm, just for a second before walking away with an expression that Sam, despite having a master's degree in everything concerning his brother, cannot discern. There is something like five seconds in white, Sam observes, without abandoning his fury, how Dean brings the hand to his shoulder, forms a fist with the one that remains free, and seems to hold his breath. Concern acts like a fire extinguisher over Sam, drowning out every last ember of rage and giving way to that protective instinct forged by years of having only each other. 

“Are you all right? I'm sorry... I didn't realize. Why... Why don't you let me take a look at that? The bandages need to be changed…”

Dean feels a tongue of lava devouring his flesh under the tender scar of his shoulder, searing in an agonizing way everything in its path. Something in his mind struggles to make its way, bombarding him with images that look like memories and that he can't place. He has to control it, he tries, but he doesn't know how and Sam is too close, his scent creeping up Dean’s thighs and bursting under his hip bones. 

Sam tries to reach him, voicing in worried tones words that Dean can't understand now. 

“It's okay,'' he says, taking twice as many steps backward as Sam advances. “I did it.” 

Dean inhales, after having held on as long as he could, the green of his eyes shines strangely and Sam feels the danger in the form of a chill. 

“Dean?”

“Pick up your things, we're leaving.” These are the only words that go beyond the barrier Dean has created, covering his mouth and nose with the back of his hand.

They haven't stopped since, as if they were part of one of those stupid reality shows, "CAN THEY GO THROUGH 15 STATES IN A MONTH?" and yes, it seems they can, maybe not fifteen, but Sam has lost count. They spend their days on the road and their nights desecrating graves or cutting off heads, either way, each one of them ends up with fire and salt. 

They talk to each other only when necessary, and while Dean puts his foot down, as if he wanted to break the pedal, Sam keeps an eye on him. They watch each other, but Sam does it more. Dean has always been an efficient hunter, educated under the strict regime that his father disguised as a family and which replaced "dad" with " sir". Dean became the perfect soldier, but now he is something else, now he makes fucking John Wick look like a schoolgirl by his side, and Sam doesn't know how to deal with that. 

Dean ravages everything in his path on every hunt, and it's not his strength or his forcefulness that impresses Sam, it's not the screaming or the severed limbs hitting the ground that worries him, but that feeling that Dean is not fighting the monsters, but himself and Sam, as if Dean thought that the peak of his crusade to keep Sam away was definitely to kill him, and he practices with every monster how to do it. 

There are also periods, although rare, when he seems to relax, when he returns to being the Dean that Sam knows. Nights in which, while they share a table in any diner, they become brothers again, the jokes and the rogue smile return, the _"I don't know how you can keep that giant body with rabbit food"_ , while he makes sure he gets Sam a salad that lacks nothing, Chewing with his mouth open that cholesterol-cheese mixture wrapped in bread he calls a hamburger until Sam can't help but moan _"Shut your mouth, jerk,"_ and Dean replies, _"Don't forget the carrots, bitch.”_

In other words, Dean right now is a puzzle for which Sam does not have all the pieces, and not knowing is something that has always made him nervous. Dean moves from super protection to apparent hate in the blink of an eye, and Sam lives with the urge not to miss it so he can be prepared for whatever may come. 

They're in Griggsville, Illinois, when they get the call from Bobby. Sam is amazed at the speed at which Dean's arm moves to reach the mobile phone which is being charged on the bedside table. He and Dean exchange information and details while Sam is still halfway through taking off his boots. Dean has a scowl and that concentrated gesture that reminds him of his father. Dean moistens his lips, and despite what they're going through, Sam can't help but wonder for a second what it would be like, how it would feel if those lips slipped off his skin. 

“Don't get too comfortable, we're leaving.” 

Sam returns to reality with the same delicacy that a tsunami hits the beach. 

“What?”

“Bobby just gave me the details of what appears to be a ghouls' nest. Apparently, they've grown tired of their scavenger diet and have opted for a fresher, healthier one that consists of a bus driver and a cheerleader from the school's lacrosse team. They are in Silverton and that is almost two days away. If we leave now…”

“No.”

“No?”

Dean seems legitimately shocked. And it's not surprising, because Sam has been following him all this time with a doglike loyalty and almost silence. 

“Holy shit, no. We just got here, we've been driving around non-stop for weeks, the last three days we've been sleeping in the car. I need a shower and I need a bed. I'm not moving from here until I've had both.”

“Is that what you're going to tell the parents of the third victim, Sam? That you needed a shower and a bed?”

Dean can't say for sure that Sam heard the last sentence, the bathroom door was raised like a barrier between them before he could finish it. 

They take turns in the shower because the look Sam gave Dean as he left the bathroom screamed at him wordlessly that if he wanted to leave now, he would have to do it alone. They take to their beds but neither of them sleeps, both aware of the other's breath, dealing with their own demons. It's not until five o'clock that Dean considers the sleep simulation to be over.

The atmosphere in the car is dense, Dean keeps his eyes on the road and his foot on the gas, doesn't talk, and doesn't even seem to enjoy the music. The space between them is no wider because there is no more room, both stuck to their respective windows as if an invisible force were holding them there. 

Sam sighs and watches the landscape go by, hating the certainty that at times like this they could kill each other. Wishing that someday it would stop being so difficult for them to just sit and talk. 

“Dean?” Sam tries. 

Dean turns up the music and doesn't stop until they've left the "Colorado" sign behind.

Silverton is a small town between mountains that triples its population in winter with crowds of tourists looking to get away from their stressful lives for a few days of skiing. Hotels and sports stores take up the streets, now quiet in late spring. 

There is little left to see of the victims in the morgue, just a few chewed up remains and splintered bones. They exchange friendly smiles with a sheriff who, like so many others, is amazed that a bear or mountain lion attack will attract the attention of the FBI, and with the security of habit, the tasks of interrogating the victims and diving a little into the local information points are divided. 

No alarm is raised when Dean returns to the motel room and Sam is not there working on his computer. It's early and it doesn't take any effort to imagine him with his nose buried in piles of old books or newspapers. He doesn't worry when it's almost dinnertime and he's still alone. Sam will show up any minute with a pack of beers and something to eat. He has no illusions, after the last few hours he is sure that the burger Sam will bring him will be tofu. The concern becomes apparent an hour later, when the fifth call he makes to Sam is diverted, like all the others, directly to voicemail. 

“Damn it, Sam. Where the hell are you?”

His eyes are heavy, his brain is dull and he feels a pulsating pain at the base of his neck. He is confused, and no matter how hard he tries, he can't remember what happened. God, that pain is killing him. He tries to bring his hand to the point where he feels the most pain, but it is totally impossible. _“What the hell?”_

He makes an effort to straighten his head, to open his eyes. At that moment he is aware that the pain is not limited to that point in his head, his whole body is complaining at the slightest movement. His eyelids tremble, open for a second and then close, protecting his eyes from the blinding light. He emits a grunt of complaint before opening them again, blinking quickly to get used to it, turning his head to one side and the other, checking a totally unknown room. Tall, dirty, peeling walls, old, ramshackle shelves filled with dusty cans, a floor of dirt oozing with moisture.

He tries to move his arms once more, looking for something to lean on and stand on. He's confused, but not confused enough not to know that he has to get out of there. Again he is unable to do so. If he could at least get rid of that heavy fog in his brain, maybe then he could concentrate and figure out what's going on. 

He tries to move his legs and the result is the same. His back hurts, he is aware that he is leaning to the left, his right side burns for the time he has spent in that posture, as well as his arm, which he feels totally asleep because of the tension. With great effort, he manages to stand upright, panting because of the pain caused by the movement and the relief obtained by the change of posture. He listens to the friction of the ropes against the wood, and his eyes open definitely when the pieces fit to his dull head.

He had been asking some questions, seeking information about the case without much success in reality. He was returning to the motel, thinking about continuing to work there with his laptop when this girl had approached him claiming to be a friend of the victim. She seemed very emotional, and at one point, she started crying in his arms. By the time he felt the needle break through the skin on his neck, it was too late. 

“Damn it!” he exclaims between clenched teeth, as he struggles with the ropes. 

A door opens behind him and Sam counts ten stronger steps, a staircase, he's probably in some kind of basement. Sam straightens up as much as he can preparing for what's to come.

“Look who's already awake,” says a female voice that Sam recognizes as the girl who approached him on the street. 

“What's all this? What's going on? I don't think it's a good idea to kidnap an FBI agent.” 

The girl looks at him with a feigned and exaggerated expression of surprise before she starts laughing, sitting on his lap and sliding her tongue in a long lick along Sam's neck. 

“F.B.I.? Are you sure? I don't know…” she answers, smelling Sam and rubbing her body obscenely against his. “You don't smell like a cop, you smell more like... a hunter?”

The girl pulls away just enough to look Sam straight in the face, her eyes distilling mockery. Sam grinds his teeth and holds his gaze with rage. 

“That's right, beautiful. Release all that rage, all those emotions are the perfect seasoning, delicious. The pain..., the pain gives it a sublime touch.” 

Sam's face contracts when the blade, which he had not seen before, slides along his forearm making a deep cut. The girl takes the blade to her lips and tastes the blood with evident pleasure before using it again, this time on his chest. 

“You are strong, it will take a while, but you will be delicious.” 

“I thought it was the carrion that you liked. You are nothing but overgrown worms, hidden in holes, not brave enough to hunt your own prey, living off the remains that others do not want.”

Sam manages to draw a smile of genuine pity. 

“Do you think we are not brave enough?” she exclaims, pulling back Sam's hair painfully. “Do you believe in the right to judge us?” she shouts angrily, squeezing the knife on Sam's cheek who keeps staring at her. 

“What's going on down there?”

Another voice, this time male, comes from the door. The girl stands up, pushing him against the chair to which he is tied with disdain. 

“Nothing. I think we're going to have to soften this meat up a bit before we cook it.” 

“I'll take care of it.” 

Sam senses the smile in the funny tone of the man who soon appears in his field of vision, almost as tall as him and much wider. The girl nods and gives Sam a cynical smile. 

“Enjoy it, beautiful. Don't kill him, Rick. Not yet.”

The girl leaves, leaving them alone. Sam instinctively squeezes his right hand, keeping the little keyring he has stolen from the girl hidden as she rubbed against him. Two seconds later the first blow hits his face, the darkness takes longer than he would like. 

** 

Dean crouches down when the cabin appears before his eyes, seeking the protection of the bushes and low tree branches. There is no one in sight, everything seems to be in a state of semi-abandonment, but there are certain signs that do not escape the eyes of an expert hunter like him and tell him that the old shelter is in use. 

He refuses to analyze the part that is not his experience, the one that has been getting stronger every second of the eighteen hours it has taken him to get here, "Too much time, damn it", the one that makes him distinguish the rhythm of at least six hearts in his head and as many essences, including Sam's. 

Sam, he would distinguish its aroma over anything. Breathe in strongly, separating without knowing how all those other fragrances until there are only vanilla, almond, wood, and damp soil left. 

That's what brought him here. 

After four more missed calls, it was clear that something had happened to Sam. Understanding opened the door to that which he had been trying to contain, his mind exploded, blinding as an atomic bomb, taking his breath away and making him fall on his knees bathed in sweat. Again, those meaningless images were projected on his head, while a sharp sound pierced his ears. He could not avoid shouting in pain. 

When everything stopped and he was able to recover his breath, he only felt a dull but structured rage against those who had dared to do something to Sam and an instinctive determination to recover what was his. Not knowing how much time had passed out of reach, he grabbed his weapons and went out to find his brother. 

He went to all the places where he assumed Sam would have been, unaware that he recognized his essence in each one of them, ignorant of the relief that a part of him found in that until the trail disappeared. Then came despair and chaos, until that other part took over. It was like being possessed, leaning out of the balcony of his eyes, contemplating everything while someone else handled the command bridge. 

He had found the exact point where Sam's trail was lost, mixed with that of so many others, subdued under the smell of old tires and gasoline. In that he had lost most of the time, following each one of them, discarding one by one each false track, learning on the road, feeling more and more integrated with his other-self. Until he found the right one. 

Even though his instinct screams to break into that cabin and take back what is his, pushing everyone who stands in front of him out of the way, his rational side knows that he must wait, study the situation and work out a plan. Prudence, in these cases, is a virtue. If he is discovered before time, Sam can give himself up for dead.

Anger and rage grow inside him as he waits. The smell of blood floods his nostrils and he knows for sure where it comes from. He swears by a God in whom he does not believe that he will make them pay for every drop spilled and invents a thousand ways to do it, while he keeps the count of the beats, until the sun begins to set by the horizon. 

With all his senses alert, he advances through the shadows until the trees stop offering him cover. With a quick run, he reaches the back of the cabin and sticks to it as if he wanted to merge with the wood. A man watches one of the corners, his head falling off before he can even be surprised. Dean hides his body and keeps glued to the wall, looking through the first window he sees, finding an empty room. 

He continues to the door and when he's about to knock it down it opens and for a couple of seconds, Dean finds himself face to face with another one of those monsters. The guy tries to close it, but Dean stops him with a kick that splinters the rickety wood. Fuck the element of surprise. 

Three men surround him now, smiling confidently, excited about what they already count as a second course. Dean rises to his full height, wielding his machete confidently, imposingly, and defiantly. At a silent signal, the men advance in unison, hovering over him. Dean moves with agility, keeping them at bay. One of them attacks from behind, Dean turns, wielding the machete in front of his face, the monster dodges him by millimeters, but he cannot do the same with the kick that hits the lower part of his belly. 

Dean takes advantage, grabbing it by the shoulders and throwing it against the other two, getting more space for him. The second attacks his left flank; Dean blocks the blow with his arm while delivering a deadly cut and another head hits the ground with a thud. The other two then fall on him, knocking him down, joining forces to try to contain him. 

Dean takes the blows until the rage builds up in his gut makes him flail around like a maniac, kicking one of his attackers out of the way. He doesn't know for sure what he looks like when he hunts monsters, but what his enemies' eyes now reflect gives him an idea. Probably like a psychopathic killer. Dean smiles at the idea, with his now free hand he reaches his weapon again and this time he doesn't miss either. The third one flees towards the interior of the house. 

Sam is weak and in pain. The blows and the numerous cuts he has been inflicted have him on the verge of bleeding out, yet with that blunt tenacity Dean has always mocked, he continues to try to cut the rope with the irregular edge of the stolen keyring. The noise of the fight upstairs gives him the courage to try harder. 

It's Dean, he's sure of it. Dean has found him, thank God, and with a little luck, they'll be able to get out of there and tell the tale. 

The basement door opens and closes just as quickly. From his position, Sam can't see what's going on and can't stop the worry from settling in his gut. What if Dean has been caught? What if he has been killed? What if...

“Dean!!” he shouts with what little strength he has left.

“Sam!!!”

The shout comes from outside and Sam resumes with renewed impetus his attempt to free himself, the fibers of the rope give way and each one feels like a small victory. 

The thud rumbles through the room, making Sam shrink back to the battered seat he's tied to, three more times, and although he doesn't see it, he knows the door is smashed. There are bumps and grunts and something heavy rolling down the steps. Sam turns his neck as far as he can, trying to get a glimpse of what's going on between the cracks that leave his eyes swollen. 

Rick, the guy who had been entertaining himself by hitting him, recoils bruised and limping in his direction, eyes fixed on the point where Sam assumes the door should be, and an expression that can only be described as terror. Soon, another silhouette enters his field of vision, powerful and magnificent, and although Sam has grown in his shadow and has seen him in a thousand different situations, it is difficult for Sam to say that he is Dean. 

His brother advances without hurry in the direction of the monster that now seems to shrink, imposing in each one of his movements, the tense muscles and a sharp face in all its angles that could well be chiseled in marble. His eyes distill anger and his knuckles, white around the handle of the machete, a murderous determination. The whole picture triggers a chill along Sam's spine that is not worry or fear, but something that would fit more with the excitement. 

“Dean?” 

Sam amazes himself because more than a question it sounds like a needy groan. Dean looks at him, drawing attention away from his prey, and his face softens for a second with infinite tenderness, obvious relief, and a small but purposeful smile. The same old Dean, the one who healed the scrapes on his knees while mocking his clumsiness with his skateboard, or the one who held him to reach the Impala after a hard hunt. Sam sees himself comforted by that gesture as he has been so many times and tries a fake smile, but fails due to the swelling he feels on his face. With a blink, the Dean he knows disappears and an animal fury reduces the green of his eyes to ashes.

“Dean!”

Sam's scream, calling out to him, only reinforces his determination. Sam is alive somewhere in this miserable place and Dean would bet his right hand that he is behind the door that that monster has just walked through. The door, although reinforced, is a poor defense for his new forces and three blows are enough to make it jump through the air. 

The ghoul makes a feint of attack that Dean blocks without effort; his counterattack sends the monster rolling down the stairs. Sam's essence hits him, strong and intense, filtering through every pore of his skin and making that new part of him react restlessly and worried. 

“Dean?”

The needy tone brings out a grunt from his guts, he turns around looking for it, he feels the relief for a second, but after realizing the seriousness of Sam's state, his face closes in a furious mask. 

Sam is tied on a rickety chair, too little for his body, forcing him to keep a clearly uncomfortable posture. His face is bruised and swollen, with traces of dried blood clinging to his skin and hair. Dean feels anger against himself for not being able to prevent this, for having left Sam in a vulnerable position on the wings of his stupid attempt to stay away from him. 

Sam groans and Dean feels his skin crawl, burning with the need to forget everything and focus on just him. Sam, Sam, Sam, his smell, his skin, Sam... Closes his eyes, his heart racing, Sam...

“Dean!”

The ghoul has seen in that small lapse his chance, and he allows himself a small victorious smile when he hits the body of the hunter with a savage blow. Dean falls and rolls quickly to the ground, the monster hovers over him threateningly, armed with a pipe and clearly ready to strike again. Dean uses his legs to unbalance his opponent, cruelly hitting his knee. The beast shows its teeth and howls in pain as it falls. 

With his mind alert again, Dean reacts quickly and with an agile movement, he places himself on top of the monster disguised as a man. The snap of the broken nose tears the air, followed by the screams of pain. The first blow is followed by another, then another and another, and another... Dean seems blinded, venting his anger and frustration on what is now nothing more than a bloody pulp between his legs. Unable to stop, his knuckles flayed, his hands full of blood, this one and the others, covering him completely, making his clothes stick to his body, sticky and hot, reeking of rust and hate. 

“Dean…”

He can't stop. 

“Dean!”

The urgency of Sam's voice breaks through his mind clouded with hate and rage. The sudden silence cries out the new danger. Look at the body below him, he's possibly dead, but you never know with these things. The machete makes a clean cut as he tries to recover the rhythm of his breathing. 

Dean turns his head slowly, looking at where Sam is. A knot is made in his throat when he sees a woman next to him, holding a knife dangerously close to his throat and smiling smugly. Dean's body tightens, ready to attack. The knife is pressed against the thin skin, making the blood emerge which penetrates his nostrils and unleashes a roar that is born in his entrails and, without knowing how, escapes through his throat. 

“I wouldn't do that, honey.”

The warning is accompanied by a slight movement that deepens the blade, making Sam hissing in pain. Dean represses his anxiety, getting up slowly, taking a couple of steps away from his last prey, forcing his body to wait. His eyes are fixed on the woman. 

“Drop it and I'll let you go.”

“Really? Why don't I believe you?”

“Hey, I'm serious. Let him go and we'll forget all about it.” 

Dean tries to negotiate as he moves, slowly spinning around his new target. 

“You killed my family. Five of mine. I think it's only fair that I killed him, don't you?”

“I'll kill you,” he says in a low, cold tone. His eyes are sharp over the girl's, with a certainty that doesn't seem to impress her.

“You will do it anyway. I've seen you, with them. You're no better than us. At least I will have my revenge.”

The knife squeezes and Sam groans under its blade. His eyes are looking for Dean's. 

Dean feels Sam, he could say that he feels every beat of his heart accelerated inside his own chest. He closes his eyes, his head hurts, he feels like a pressure cooker before it explodes. Anger boils in his blood along with the need to protect Sam. 

“Dean.”

It's a choking plea that burns Dean under the skin. 

“Sam…”

Everything happens in an instant. The knife moves in slow motion before his eyes, he can hear every hundredth of a millimeter that it tears under its blade, he can smell every drop of blood before it spills. His eyes burn with fury; his anger scorches him. Sam is his. No one can take him away.

The wolf is faster than himself. With an agile and fast jump, Dean is left behind to let appear a huge wolf with wild silver-gray hair and burning green eyes. The animal's jaws close precisely over the knife arm and shake it hard until it releases. 

“What are you?” The girl asks, the shock and surprise evident in her voice as she holds her wounded arm. 

There is no answer, just a low, dull growl before the huge figure of the animal jumps up again, this time to her throat. The screams are quickly drowned out by the blood gushing like a fountain.

The wolf roars in triumph when its jaws close tightly over the tender skin of its opponent's throat, its fangs breaking through until it feels the blood soaking its gums. He squeezes and shakes his head sharply, again and again, feels the flesh open, tearing, hears the choked moan that precedes death, a last affirmation until silence comes and everything is quiet. 

Time stops, and the wolf keeps his posture on the inert body, still bristling and dominant, panting heavily, with muscles still seized by tension and effort. Licks his snout by cleaning the blood, letting it calm him down, the satisfaction as a discharge of endorphins. 

Breathe in.

His nostrils dilate and his eyes darken. The wolf turns his head and there he is. Sam. His essence occupies everything, every cubic centimeter of the air that can be breathed in that infamous place. It covers everything, impregnates everything, so sweet and penetrating that neither all the spilled blood nor the smell of death of forsaken bodies can even diffuse it a little. It covers everything, even him. 

Sam doesn't know if he's dreaming or if this is all a product of a fucking hallucination because of the blows he's been getting in the last few hours. Dean is... Dean has... changed? This definitely has to be a fucking hallucination, but it's so fucking real. 

He can't take his eyes off the wolf, fascinated by the power emanating from the animal, mesmerized by the dilated pupils that lurk in it, dark and penetrating. His body trembles as the animal advances towards him, slow movements, as if it were stalking prey. And, in truth, Sam feels himself like prey. He feels the snout, wet and cold, sinking in his neck, inhaling, recognizing. 

Sam holds his breath and the wolf's tongue licks his skin, rough, heavy, wet. The huge paw of the animal rests on his forearm, the lively eyes looking at him with intensity. Sam bristles under its contact. When it removes it, Sam hisses in pain, four parallel lines marking his skin in a deep scratch. 

The wolf grunts satisfied and changes his position, smelling now his face, crying quietly at the wounds, licking the dry blood, taking away sweat and tears. 

“Dean?” Sam whispers, closing his eyes for a moment. The presence of the wolf intimidates him, but also causes many other things that now cannot be stopped to analyze. Now he needs to know what is happening. “Is it..., is it you?”

“Is it you?”

With that question, Dean emerges once again, slowly regaining his plot of consciousness, but still confused. His body feels strange, but not in a bad way, just different. He tries to say something, but the words don't come out, just a whimper that sounds strange to his ears. The images and sensations are repeated quickly in his head. He freezes. 

He looks up and finds himself viewing Sam's face, looking down at him from above. At that moment, the only thing that he wishes more than killing himself is that Sam stops looking at him with those enormous eyes that no longer reflect the rage of the last days that they have spent arguing, but only incredulity and fear. 

The wolf... No, not the wolf, Dean, he turns away from him and Sam can see the confusion in his huge green eyes. He tries to get his attention, but Dean seems lost somewhere in his mind. Sam feels the restlessness growing in his gut as he desperately tries to finish freeing himself without taking his eye off his brother who seems to be on the verge of escaping. 

“Dean,” he calls, “Please, please. Listen to me.” 

The huge eyes look at him again, the fear and sadness overlapping the beautiful shades of green. 

“Dean, damn it. No!” 

Sam's face hurts, his wrists burn as he keeps trying to free himself and his heart stops in his chest when the wolf licks his fingers one last time before it starts running. 

“Dean!!!”

The last fiber breaks at that moment and Sam thinks bitterly that, again, destiny mocks him with another of its bad jokes. He tries to untie himself as fast as he can, but he's exhausted and in pain, and deep down he knows the effort is futile, no matter how hard he tries he won't catch up with Dean or whatever he is right now. 

Sam has seen his eyes, he has seen his fear, and knowing how he knows his brother, he knows that he has to find Dean before the worst of his nightmares become real. At that moment, Sam swears to himself that he will not spare the effort. 

Legends tell that millions of years ago, when men began to walk the earth, Nayati was just a child at the time he was attacked by a hungry, lone wolf. He hid among some brambles and managed to avoid being killed by the animal, but that didn't prevent the huge bite that shattered his shoulder and tore part of his chest and that, in time, left him with a huge scar.

Nayati almost died from the attack, the wounds were too severe and the infection difficult to fight despite the herbal potions and prayers of the shaman of his small clan. No one gave much for his life, but as he healed his wounds, the shaman assured him that the wolf had marked him for some reason and that this was important.

Nayati recovered, but because of the wounds, he could barely move his left arm. The hunters of his clan considered him useless and the women did not want him with them either. He was shameful, a man who had not even been able to prove his worth, doing women's work. The shaman asked permission to take him on as an apprentice. He had already spent many moons with the boy and had talked to him about herbs and the spirit world. The boy was smart and it was clear to the shaman that he possessed the necessary qualities, it was just a matter of focusing more on his education. The request was rejected by the head of the clan who did not want the presence in his clan of a man who could not call himself that would make him appear weak to other neighboring clans.

Nayati was banished, condemned to live alone and never to approach anyone in the clan again. The boy barely survived, avoiding contact with anyone for fear of being killed by other clans, unable to hunt anything but small rodents, and practically eating only fruits and berries. He had spent two years in solitude when he found the wolf dead, possibly due to starvation after birth, the pups next to her, small cold lumps and equally dead. After skinning the animal to use its hide, Nayati observed how one of the little ones moved. He thought about killing it; the wolves were dangerous, but he couldn't help but think that both were in the same sad situation. Besides, he had been alone for too long.

He didn't know of anyone who had ever adopted a wolf and it was logical; who would want to bring a killer into their home? But he wasn't good for anyone either, maybe together they would form their little clan, and that way he would have someone to talk to. He had almost forgotten how to do it.

Nayati kept the pup and made it his companion, the wolf, in gratitude, protected him and helped him hunt. Nayati became a great hunter with his help, both were perfectly attuned. Nayati was no longer useless and decided to return to his clan. The appearance of the wolf caused panic at first and then veneration. Nayati dominated the hunts and became a feared and respected warrior with the huge wolf at his side. But he also earned envy.

His relationship with the shaman continued, expanding his knowledge with intelligence and attention. People of his clan claimed that when he went into a trance he saw through the eyes of the wolf, heard through his ears, and also communicated with it without words. His clan was divided between those who worshipped him and those who feared and hated him.

When the head of the clan died, his son was to take his place, but the majority of the clan asked for Nayati to lead them. He was the best hunter, had the grace of the gods, and had the wolf. The other clans had stopped attacking their territory in fear of the animal and of the one that dominated it. For the first time in the history of the clan, the bloodline was broken.

Usua, son of the deceased chief, accepted the decision, but inside he swore to take revenge. Together with those who were still loyal to him, they devised a plan to kill him, which involved killing the wolf first. It was not unknown to anyone that the animal often wandered alone through the territory, hunting or exploring the terrain. According to Nayati's most fervent followers, being the eyes of his owner.

The trap was set, the bait a wounded goat that would be easy to detect. The wolf gave a surprised gasp when the ground sank under his feet. Usua and his henchmen laughed contentedly, mocking the trapped animal from above, celebrating the victory that they were already touching with their fingertips. A hail of spears ended the life of the animal.

Nayati was sleeping when the wolf appeared in his dream before him. His heart broke at the sight of it, instantly understanding the fate of his friend. The animal approached and sat down in front of him, looking for his hand with its snout. Nayati caressed him lovingly, asking him what had happened. When he found out, Nayati bent down and embraced the animal's neck, assuring him that they would soon be together again, knowing that his life was about to end.

Nayati remained in his dream when the first furtive steps echoed in the cave that was his home. The wolf straightened his ears and then looked at Nayati as if studying him, his intelligence shining from his amber-colored eyes. To his surprise, the animal growled, only a second before digging its jaws into the old scars on his shoulder.

Pain exploded in his head and Nayati woke up. He reached for what he expected to be a wound and found nothing. He remembered the danger he was in and stood up looking for his spear, just as the traitors decided to appear, hurling themselves at him. Then it happened, his body changed in front of the eyes of his enemies and a huge wolf made his appearance throwing himself directly at Usua's neck and tearing it with a quick movement of his head. The others soon fell on their knees and begged "Kwoli" (Wolf)'s forgiveness.

Nayati ruled his clan for more years than anyone else ever did. His children were numerous, a few marked by Kwoli, each of them educated in the spiritual world, perfecting communion with their animal side generation after generation to this day.

“Okay, let's start over. What are you?”

Sam is redirecting his tactics in light of the poor results he's getting. He decides to put aside his anger and try to show himself more as the good cop in the movies, trying to ignore the fact that he lacks a partner to give sense to that performance. 

The man, whom Sam has tied from the ceiling with some chains, remains as impassive to his questions as he has been until now, maintaining a stubborn mutism and with the addition that he seems immune to the weapons and materials always effective with the beings with which they are used to dealing. Of course, he bleeds like any living being, but neither silver, nor holy water, nor iron or salt, cause in him any special reaction. 

Sam remains as intrigued as frustrated, but the sword of Damocles that represents the time that has passed since Dean fled, prevents him from taking the rest he knows he would need to see things with a better perspective. 

“We both know you're not human. My brother and I thought you might be werewolves, but clearly, we were wrong. Although you also eat the hearts of your victims. If we didn't show up, who knows what would have become of that poor girl?”

The furtive look and the quickly corrected gesture of rejection betray the first reaction of the man since he woke up from the unconsciousness to which Sam had subjected him with the useful help of a taser. They do not go unnoticed. 

“Oh, my! I'm so sorry I left you without dinner.” He mocks, trying a new strategy. 

The man gives him a condescending look that blows away what little self-control Sam has managed to muster so far. His lips twist into a psychotic smile and his eyes burn with the same homicidal fury of the times when he used to drink demon blood. 

“What are you?” he asks, slowly, hissing between clenched teeth as he plunges the knife into his prisoner's flank. 

The being shrinks from the pain, but keeps his silence. 

“What are you?!” he shouts, turning the handle of the knife, enlarging the wound. “What have you done to my brother?”

The fury asks Sam to go on, to deepen the wound, to make more of them, to try to find out how many more he needs until that bastard has no choice but to beg him to stop or if he will have the balls to die with his lips sealed. Reason makes Sam take out the knife and walk away. 

The man grunts in pain, drenched in sweat and blood, swinging precariously from his chains. Sam steps aside and heads for the door, perhaps some coffee can help him calm down. The man coughs with difficulty and then finally speaks. 

“Your brother?” he asks, in a deep, low voice. “We haven't done anything to your brother.”

Sam takes a deep breath before turning around and facing him again. 

“Did you not? Then how come a week ago he turned into a fucking wolf right under my nose?” Sam shouts a few inches from his face. 

The man pales in front of his eyes and the impassive expression that he had managed to maintain until now turns into surprise and restlessness. 

“A...?”

“Yeah!” Sam interrupts. “A wolf! A bloody wolf! God... I must be going crazy to say this. What are you? Alphas? Is that why you don't depend on the full moon to turn you? But that doesn't explain why you're immune to silver.” 

Sam has a whole pile of questions that need to be answered, one that he's been accumulating every sleepless night for the last week while he was looking for the beings he was sure it all started with, the ones that got away from them in that bar in Montana. 

“It is not possible…” mumbles. 

Sam looks into his eyes and observes legitimate bewilderment, as if he were as amazed by the news as Sam is. 

“What do you mean? Speak up!”

The man seems to be engaged in an internal debate and Sam's impatience is increasingly evident. He needs to know what is happening and he needs to know it now.

“Speak up!” he demands, as he plunges his thumb into the wound the knife has just left. 

The man grunts in pain and surprise, but it seems that Sam has achieved his goal and the blue eyes of the man give up on his ramblings and focus on him, almost with the same interest in knowing what Sam has. 

“It's been years, centuries maybe.”

“Of what?”

“Of the last time there was any evidence of a transformation. We, we are born this way. Our bloodlines are as old as those of men. Transformations are truly strange, and it is extremely difficult for them to take place.”

Sam feels that his head will explode with more unknowns, but first things first.

“What are you?”

The man looks at him as if he is hearing the question for the first time. 

“Kowlis.” 

“Kowlis? I have never heard the name of such a creature before.” 

“It means wolf.” 

“And what are you, werewolf 2.0 or something?”

Kowli makes the same disgusting face he had made before and shakes his head. 

“We have nothing to do with those beasts.” 

“No? What about the hearts? What about the girl?”

“She was one of them, a werewolf. We hunted them.” 

Sam can't help but have an incredulous laugh. Monsters hunting monsters? It is ridiculous. It's just that, although he can't believe it, it sounds pretty serious. 

“Okay,” sigh. “Let's say I believe you. Why do you hunt them? What makes you different? I come from a long line of hunters, why have I never heard of the Ko..., Kowlis?”

“That's the idea, to go unnoticed. We've been doing it for years. We are perfectly integrated with humans. We don't eat them, we don't kill them, that's why you've never heard of us. We are very protective of the safety of our communities, so we hunt werewolves when they are too close to our settlements. These beasts only obey their instincts and draw too much attention, as has been the case.”

“And you don't?”

“We are not animals.” 

“Do you know what happened? I don't quite understand what you are. I'm sure my brother ran out on four legs and was covered in fur. Are you shape-shifters? Skinwalkers?”

The man sighs wearily. 

“Skinwalkers are distant cousins of werewolves,” he explains. “What makes them different is that the Skinwalkers achieve a complete transformation, but both are humans who end up becoming animals, but in both cases, they are the same being. They can benefit from their animal qualities only when they are transformed.” 

Sam nods, following the explanation carefully.

“We are both. Men and wolves, two different entities in the same body. In complete harmony, collaborating mutually and benefiting from the qualities of both species. As a human, I can make use of all the senses of my wolf and when I transform myself and let him out, he makes use of my consciousness and intelligence. It is like living with a partner. The wolf's instincts are strong and primitive, sometimes it is difficult to keep them at bay, especially for children and young people, the balance comes with age, and yet we can say that they mark our existence. Our society is like a pack.”

“In what way? And how do you transform yourselves?”

“In the literal sense. Our communities are packs, led by a great Alpha leader and divided into family groups, each with its own Alpha. There are also betas and omegas.”

“Like the wolves…”

“That's what I'm trying to say. For us, the family, the pack, comes first. We are absolutely monogamous and once we recognize our mate, the union is for life. We can transform ourselves at will, although most of us prefer our human form. Our wolf can also appear on its own in moments of stress or danger, or in matters related to mates... You know what I mean.” 

Sam raises a questioning eyebrow and then clears his throat nervously when he gets an understanding. Suddenly the image of Dean licking his wounds takes on a different tone in his mind, and he has to turn his face to hide the heat that suddenly floods his cheeks. 

“Ok. And my brother, how did that happen? Your friend hurt him, I don't know if he bit him, I only saw scratches. You say it's strange, why?”

“As I said, we don't transform people. We are born that way. My companion is quite young and inexperienced, this was one of his first missions and with the fight with your brother, surely his wolf felt threatened. He had to bite him, but we could bite a thousand people and none would be transformed. Werewolves and Skinwalkers carry a kind of "virus" and transmit it through their bites. We descend from a lineage that dates back to the Paleolithic, but there are rare cases in which someone has been transformed, they are considered "chosen". Just as the first wolf marked Nayati, our father, when he was only a child.”

Sam doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. This is all madness. He takes two fingers to the bridge of his nose and massages the area with fatigue. 

“A chosen one... Really? Chosen for what?”

The Kwoli shrugs. 

“According to our writings, the chosen ones are possessors of special qualities that will bring more greatness to our race.” 

“Look, I don't care. This is madness. Just... just tell me what needs to be done to reverse it. How do I get my brother back to normal?”

“You can't. It's absolutely impossible. Besides, if his wolf has already manifested, the union is complete.”

“Something has to be there, a spell, a potion, something!”

The Kwoli's expression shows understanding, but also a clear certainty. 

“Can I believe you when you say that you are not dangerous?” Sam prays for a little hope, one that can save Dean. 

There is a solemn nod and Sam can feel that it is sincere. With a defeated sigh, he seeks the key to the handcuffs and begins to unlock the handcuffs from the man's battered wrists. There is a grateful smile and then the Kwoli's face changes substantially, his brow furrows and Sam feels an iron hand on his wrist, while another hand rolls up his shirt sleeve. 

“You told me he was your brother!”

Sam looks at him without understanding, shaking off his grip and tensing up. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to let him go. 

“He's my brother,” he answers cautiously. 

“He can't be your brother. He's marked you!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your arm,” he says, pointing at it accusingly. 

Sam looks at himself and sees the four scratches that have not yet healed, which gives him no answer. 

“It's just a scratch.” 

“No, it's not. It's a mate's mark. The wolf has chosen you.”

“You'd better explain yourself before I regret letting you go and put a bullet in your head,” he demands, raising his voice with clear impatience. 

Kwoli recoils in intimidation, he has already had a clear taste of Sam's methods of figuring things out and doesn't want to have to try them again. He takes a deep breath and begins to speak. 

“As I told you, we are matched forever. We find our partners by smell, no mistake. You can have eventual partners, but when you feel the essence of that person, you know it, and once you smell it, there is no one else. When couples come together, the dominant member of the couple bites their partner on the neck and a bond is created between them that goes beyond the physical. Sometimes, very rarely, couples do not join because one of the members rejects the union. Then, they can go on with their lives, have other couples also eventually, but they will never reach full satisfaction. But if you are marked…”

“What? What happens?”

Sam has a lump in his throat and can't take his eyes off the four marks. 

“First of all, your brother has to be an Alpha, they're the only ones who can do it. If an Alpha marks you as his partner, in case you refuse to join him, you must know that you condemn yourself to live forever in solitude. No one will accept to be your partner, neither human nor of our species. The mark has an effect that makes you invisible to everyone in the sentimental realm. It is something that my race stopped practicing centuries ago because of the serious connotations it has, but I suppose that your brother does not know it.”

The Kwoli looks at him with sincere pity and Sam doesn't know what to say. Dean has marked him, marked him as his mate and apparently, there can be no one else. 

Dean wakes up with a jump. His eyelids heavy as he tries to open them, the light sharp as a dagger that pierces his eyes making him grunt with discontent. He lifts his head and a drooling thread holds him attached to the pillow. Gross, but he couldn't care less. Sam's eyes pursue his dreams, reducing any attempt at rest to almost nothing. How long does it take to cause death without sleep? He hopes it's not too long. 

He stands up, sitting on the edge of a cot so filthy and rickety that even a skunk would hesitate to use it as a bed. His whole body protests. He scratches his neglected beard and wipes the corner of his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt that he didn't bother to take off. The smell of blood and death floods his senses in the same proportion as rusty stains spread on his clothes. 

He has a cloudy memory of what has happened in the last few days, unconnected flashes full of screams, blood, and pain. He reaches out for the bottle of Jack Daniels that has been dumped at his feet, lamenting with a grunt the small puddle that seeps through the woods on the floor. He drinks and scowls as the liquid burns his throat and pushes away the rest of his sleep. 

He has never been a coward and doesn't believe that taking his own life is the way to go, but he hunts until something goes wrong, until the vampire nest is too big or the werewolves too strong. That, that makes sense. That's what he's been looking for since he left Sam in that crummy basement, but it looks like he's not having any luck. If he didn't hate what he's become so much, he might have found it useful in view of the outcome. 

He takes another drink and, as he gets up, he thinks that somehow his whole life has been one long funeral and that the only thing that is really missing is for him to die, and the truth is he is amazed to feel relief, but he does feel it. He's a little selfish and knows that it's wrong in many different ways, but he feels that maybe it's better that way, that he dies, that Sam goes on with his life and that, hopefully, he can forgive him someday. 

Sam shuffles in his sleep between sweat-soaked sheets. His instinct works on automatic pilot, reacting to the possible threat with the same tried and tested fluidity with which he searches for the knife he always hides under his pillow. He opens his eyes and stands still, listening, his hand closed around the handle. Nothing. 

It takes him only a second to locate himself and recognize the familiar space where he has spent so much time in his life, the place that was almost a prize in his childhood, and that gathers practically all the moments in which he can say that he has been really happy. A minute goes by and he can say that his restlessness is just the result of some bad dream, stress or tiredness, or maybe a mixture of all the above. 

Before getting up, he looks nostalgically at the empty bed next to him. With a tired sigh, he looks out of the window, the backyard of Bobby's house stretches out before his eyes, the moon emitting flashes that are reflected in the broken glass of the car windows piled up like junk. The crust of the scratches on his arm itches like hell and he tells himself he should stop scratching them if he doesn't want to finish tearing his arm apart. He feels his mouth dry and decides to go down to the kitchen to get some water. The glass falls and shatters at his feet when he returns to the room and a huge wolf is watching him. 

He wants to say something, but he can't. He feels the animal's eyes running over every inch of his skin that is bristling under scrutiny. The wolf moves slowly, out of the shadows and into the light of the window. Its fur flashes silver reflections under the moon and infers an aura of mystery to the already imposing figure. His eyes reflect the green of a jungle and shine with an intensity that makes it hard for Sam to breathe. 

The wolf emits a low grunt that Sam does not feel as a threat, but that causes him an uncontrollable desire of falling on his knees at its feet, something so ridiculous that makes him think seriously about if he could have unconsciously consumed some kind of drug; he feels that his blood is boiling under his skin, feels so much thirst that he is already lamenting the spilled water and, for some reason, hears as in a loudspeaker the beats of his heart inside his chest. 

Something impels him to move forward, his fingertips itching with the desire to sink into the dense fur. The wolf watches him with inquisitive eyes and Sam doesn't know what breath drives the words out of his mouth because he can swear he was out of breath long before he moans that, _“Please.”_

The wolf cuts out the space that separates them, his snout wet and cold on his skin now feverish with a desire that Sam cannot understand. It smells his hands, his chest, licks the mark and all the hair on his arm stands up looking for contact. Sam closes his eyes.

“Please…” pray again. “Dean, please…”

Sam feels the wolf moving, swirling around him, its hair brushing against his body. The sound stops and Sam feels his heart in his throat. Fear mixed with desire and urge. Nothing happens. 

It takes him a moment to gather the courage to open his eyes. The wolf is gone and in its place, the unmistakable figure of Dean is cut out. His brother stands with his back to him, gloriously naked. The moonlight illuminates the curves of his shoulders, highlighting against the light the profile of his face as if it were a drawing, his forehead, his nose, his fleshy lips, and even his enormous eyelashes. 

Sam's eyes greedily run over his powerful back, the perfect curvature of his buttocks and his muscular legs. Sam has seen his brother many times naked, but he could swear that even though his body looks the same, he looks different now. More flexible, more powerful, more... He can't find the word.

“Dean…”

His brother has remained absent in that slight lapse, looking out the window as if he were considering something. Dean turns at his call and Sam freezes when he feels Dean's gaze darkening, his eyes sharpening over his body and running over every inch of him until they make contact with Sam's, who now feels that he could burn in the fire of that green. 

“Sam.” His voice is so dark and heavy that Sam can't avoid the chill that runs down his back and makes him hard right away. 

Dean advances towards him, surrounding him as the wolf did before. Sam's breathing sounds heavy and is cut off when Dean squeezes him from behind. An arm encircles his waist while a strong hand is anchored to the pillar of his neck, making him throw his head back. Sam is completely leaning against Dean's chest and his excitement is a statement of intent as he tries to work his way through the soft cotton fabric covering Sam's buttocks. 

Dean sinks his nose into the space between his shoulder and neck and inhales again and again, going up to the back of his ear, licking the soft skin, scratching it with his teeth. 

“Sam…” he moans, with the loudest, darkest voice Sam has ever heard, and it is charged with so much desire that Sam believes he could die of happiness at that moment. 

Dean forces him to turn, drives him effortlessly, energetically, and dominantly, and Sam is not quite sure it should feel this good, but it does. The beautiful face of his brother appears before him, the pupils so dilated that the green has practically disappeared, dark as night. 

Sam vibrates in a sea of sensations as Dean's hands run over his body, recognizing, kneading. His name is a mantra on Dean's lips and that is something Sam had never even dared to dream of. 

The thick lips close over his own, hungry, possessive, and violent. There is no delicacy, no love, no tenderness, just pure and hard instinct, wild and primitive instinct. Domination and submission. And again, although it should not be right, it feels right. 

Dean's hands go down to his tight buttocks, dodging the cloth, separating them and letting the fingers slide between them. Dean grunts at the kiss and Sam gasps quietly as one of those fingers sinks in. There is a pleased smile on the eldest's lips, which moves forward without letting go of Sam, guiding him to the bed. 

Sam falls backward on the mattress, Dean's thumbs catch on the fabric of his boxers pushing them the long way of his legs until he discards them in some forgotten corner of the room. Sam's erection rises firmly and proudly against his stomach. Dean advances between his open legs, running his tongue and teeth along the soft skin of his inner thighs, holding the back of his knees and forcing them up and back. 

Sam feels completely exposed, but he couldn't care less. Not when Dean separates his buttocks and sinks his face between them, licking anxiously around his hole, lubricating it and penetrating it with his tongue, reducing Sam to a panting, pleading, and trembling mass under each of his caresses. 

Sam feels that he is going to die if Dean doesn't fuck him at once and it seems that his brother understands because, with one quick movement, he turns him on his stomach, pulls his hips, and leaves him with his ass up and his chest stuck to the sheets. Sam tries to get up on his arms, but Dean grunts and a hand is placed between his shoulders pushing firmly down. 

Dean pulls on his hips again, adjusting him, aligns his dick against Sam's entrance, and roars as he enters with a sure-fire thrust. Sam moans in pain, but internally is relieved. He pushes himself backward, looking for deeper penetration, to the amazement of Dean, who grunts pleased. 

“So tight…” Sam hears Dean say. 

Dean's hands close over his hips, keeping him steady, his onslaughts intensify, fast, deep, intense. Skin colliding with skin, sweat mixed with grunts, gasps, pleas. 

Sam feels like dying, his body burns over-excited and overstimulated and he has lost count of how many times he has come. Dean pushes himself against him as if there were no tomorrow and feels his tongue and lips tracing twisted paths between his neck and shoulders. Dean gasps satisfied expressions in his ear, breathes in his neck, caresses him with long, wet licks, and Sam can only beg, pray, and wish for it. 

Dean clings to his shoulders making the skin under his fingertips pale, grunts low and deep as he accelerates the rhythm, as deep and inside as Sam has never felt anything.

“Do it,” he hears himself say, ignoring the fact that he doesn't really know what he's asking. -Do it! -he moans in a plea. 

Dean's tongue licks and licks the base of his neck, the junction with his collarbone. Dean's teeth feel unusually sharp, scraping the thin skin right next to where his pulse beats. 

“Do it…” whine Sam, again.

The jaw closes, trapping the tender flesh, sinking its fangs into it, causing something to explode in his brain. Sam screams and Dean drowns his own scream against the skin under his mouth. Dean spills into his interior in long, heavy pulses and Sam surprises himself with a new orgasm.

“Sam. Sammy…” Dean sighs as he collapses on his back, crushing him against the mattress. Sam doesn't complain, too busy trying to catch his breath. 

“Sam…”

“Uhmm…”

“Sam.”

“Uhg.”

“Sam!”

“Ugh. What? What's wrong?” he asks with a start. 

Something's stuck to his face and he's fighting blindly to get it off. A sheet of paper falls on a table full of open books, ancient writings in dead languages, lithographs with wolves. 

“Are you all right, boy?”

He raises his head, dazed. His eyes quickly scan the space around him until they find a worried look under the visor of an old cap. 

“Bobby?”

“Welcome to the world, Sleeping Beauty.”

The annoying sound pierces his mind with the merciless cruelty of a tormented spirit. He swears that he will not get used to hearing in Dolby-surround and that he will kill the wretch who is thus pounding on the door. His murderous expression fades when he finds out who is on the other side. 

“Sam…” he babbles “What? What are you doing here?”

“Hey, Dean.”

If Dean weren't so shocked, he'd probably be aware of the aura of nerves and uncertainty reflected in Sam's tense smile, but right now his head just spins in a loop at the fact that Sam is at his door. 

“How did you find me?”

“Oh, yes, Dean! I'm glad to see you too.”

“How?” Reiterate, annoyed. 

“What do you think?” replies Sam, almost relieved of the normalcy of the discussion. 

“I haven't done anything that I usually do,” he says confidently.

Sam raises an eyebrow as a sign of the obvious, and Dean can't help but curse inwardly at that. 

“All right, smart ass. You found me. I'm okay. Now go.” 

“You're not going to invite me in?”

“No, and it's a capital no, with neon lights and everything. Don't miss it.”

Sam can't help but sigh with impatience. 

“Dean, we need to talk. Let me in.”

Sam tries to move forward, but an arm crossed through the door stops him. Dean looks at him, frowning and deadly serious. Sam feels the irrepressible urge to look down and take two steps back, but he doesn't. 

“Dean, this is ridiculous. If you let me…”

“Ridiculous that you came all this way. What were you thinking, Sam? It's dangerous! I'm dangerous! Didn't you see? Didn't you see what I became? Didn't you see what I did? Do you want to know how many I've killed this week? Damn it! Don't you understand that I don't want to hurt you? Don't you understand that I don't want to put you in the position of having to kill me? I've been there. Dammit! I don't want that for you!”

“You're a Kwoli. I'm not going to have to kill you.” 

Dean is silent, as if he's deflated, blinking with huge eyes like an owl. Sam takes advantage of the moment to sneak into a space he's not quite sure he can call a room. 

“Wait, what?”

Sam doesn't turn around, he's critically analyzing every point of the room, the sheets that are torn, the dirty clothes lying around, the empty bottles, and the smell of blood, sweat, and alcohol that makes his nose crinkle with disgust. 

“A Kwoli,” he repeats. He can't see Dean's face, but he can imagine it. If the situation weren't so serious, he wouldn't hesitate to make fun of him for a week. 

“What the hell is that?” he blurts out, after a few seconds, as he closes the door. 

Sam turns now, a tight smile on his lips, looking straight at Dean. 

“As I said before, we need to talk.”

One Kwoli. Fuck off. 

Dean is driving on autopilot, Sam is sitting next to him, the music is playing. All wrapped up in that familiar routine he had already made up his mind not to return to. His mind going over, again and again, all the information Sam has given him, letting the black asphalt and the lines of the road guide it through his tired brain. Many of his questions are now answered and he begins to believe that perhaps he doesn't have a sword of Damocles over his head, but even so, he cannot say for sure that he is completely calm. 

Being in front of Sam and knowing that he is not normal, knowing that Sam knows, is something he does not think he will ever get used to. He knows that it's not his fault, but somehow he feels that he has failed, that he has let himself be caught and that embarrasses him. He has always felt that he has had to maintain an image before Sam, be an example, and, between this and all the wrong feelings, he doesn't think he's going to win a merit badge. 

Then Dean realizes. 

He slows down and looks inquisitively at Sam, leaning against the glass of his door, arms curved around his body, sound asleep. 

Dean doesn't smell it. 

He breathes in again, with his head turned towards him. Nothing. Not even a small trace of that essence that has been driving him crazy. 

He recapitulates in his memory and now he can say that much of his surprise at seeing Sam at the door is that he really didn't know he was there. And although he is now certain of what he is and of his abilities, it doesn't take away from the fact that he was already accustomed to perceiving people around him in advance, either by hearing or by smelling, mainly by the latter. 

Sam's smell had gotten under his skin, tattooed on his bones, and now it's gone. It is strange. Uncomfortable. Maybe his senses were over-stimulated in the first days of his transformation and that's why everything felt so intense. If he thinks about it, it's almost a gift that he can't smell it now, that this essence doesn't awaken those desires that should never have been there. He should feel lucky. He does. It's... great, isn't it?

Bobby has put them on the trail of some vampires in Delaware. 

It feels like a new beginning, like when Jess died and it was just the two of them again. Sam was just as dead as she was then, but his heart was still beating in his chest. Dean was there for him. Now it's the same, but in reverse. 

Sam knows that Dean feels in some ways the same way he did. Sam knows that no matter how much he has explained to him, Dean is never going to stop thinking of himself as a monster and that it kills Dean in part, but now it's Sam's turn to take charge and he's willing to do whatever it takes, to be the brother Dean needs, even if it hurts. 

They'll make it work. He'll make it work.

They've been together less than a week, there's still some nervousness between them, some unbalanced energy. Both of them moving carefully to keep the rope from breaking. Sam doesn't miss the long stares Dean gives him when he thinks Sam's distracted, nor the times when they're in an elevator or some space that forces them to be close to each other and Dean leans over to him, with whatever excuse, and sniffs it slyly. 

That's what tells him that the potion is working, that and the fact that Dean doesn't seem to be avoiding him anymore. It took Sam almost two weeks and turning Bobby's entire library upside down to find it. After talking for hours, Harvey, the Kwoli he had interrogated, had agreed to send him a copy of the archives concerning the history and customs of his people with the idea that this would help him understand Dean's nature and the new bond that had been created between them. That had also helped. 

After reading them, he also had no trouble figuring out why Dean was avoiding him and trying to spend all that time away from him. When Sam began to assimilate all the information, many things came to his mind that his ignorance of the subject had caused him to overlook and that now stood out like neon signs. Those intense, anxiety-laden glances that Sam had felt even when he wasn't looking. The wet dreams that ended in startled awakenings, the reactions to the slightest touch. Dean fought off his wolf's desires with total denial. 

Once Sam found the spell, elaborating it was not complicated; the ingredients, simple: the eye of a skunk, oak root, two drops of Belladonna, the blood of the taker, and a huge amount of tiny Lycopus flowers, which was the hardest thing for him to find. The drawback is that it has a limited effect of 24 hours, which forces him to be careful and put an alarm on the clock. 

Dean seems confused by the whole thing, but he doesn't ask Sam, nor does he comment. It's not like Sam is expecting him to, it's not like they're going to sit around the dinner table now and talk about their problems. These things don't happen in his family, not now, not ever. 

It's better that way. What could they say? Sam doesn't want to hear Dean say that he's horrified at the idea of Sam being his mate, that just the thought of it makes him run to the nearest bathroom. He doesn't want to hear Dean’s reasons, that they are brothers, that they share genes and blood, that it's wrong in so many ways that even they can't ignore it.

It hurts.

Sam has heard that conversation hundreds of times in his head and doesn't want it to become real, doesn't want to see the rejection in Dean's eyes, doesn't want to lose him again, maybe forever. Sam has read enough about the Kwolis in the last few weeks to know that what is done cannot be undone and he knows his brother well enough to know that Dean can never accept it, even though Sam would give himself to the cause with his eyes closed. 

Dean is not the monster, the monster has always been him. 

That's why the potion. Sam knows that the couples in the Kwoli are determined by the essence of each member, which is what attracts each other. If that essence disappears, the only thing left is a brother. Dean wants Sam to be just that and that's what Sam will be, what he's been up to now, his brother. 

They raze the nest at the edge of the machete. Their muscles hurt from the effort and the tension, cutting heads with the same intensity with which they would like to cut the bond that unites them, be it the one of birth or the one that pairs them. 

Weeks have turned into months and the intention to return to normal has dissolved, swept away and discarded to the side like water falling on the windshield. They drive, hunt, and even take a few days off. Eventually, Dean even jokes and picks on Sam like he's always done, and Sam puts on his best bitch face and rolls his eyes to Pluto as he's always done, but they both know that it's all a pretense, a futile effort that doesn't hide the distorted energy that flows between them. 

Dean can't keep saying he's relieved he doesn't smell Sam. He feels an itch that he can't scratch and that keeps him uncomfortable and restless. He can't swear it's because of that inability to smell him, but somehow he's sure of it. He often finds himself looking at Sam, his hair disheveled, his shoulders broad, the agility of his hands on the keyboard; he stares at it looking for something he knows should be there, missing something he doesn't know how to define. He finds nothing and feels that he has been robbed. 

His wolf is in no better condition. His connection has become stronger and Dean has learned in this time to understand and deal with his animal side. He feels it as restless and frustrated as he is. Only partly placated when they can get their hands on something and kill it. 

He has started smoking. A couple of cigarettes on the first day. They were in that cafeteria near the Wauneta Sheriff's office in Nebraska. Sam was sitting in front of him, working on his laptop. Dean hadn't been able to take his eyes off him, bouncing his leg up and down, biting the skin around his thumbnail until it was raw, his breakfast forgotten, and that itch in crescendo. "You don't need me here, I'm going to talk to the witnesses," he had announced. It was either get out of there or hit something. He could only see Sam's annoyed face out of the corner of his eye. When he came out, a man was smoking at the door; he asked for one and the man generously gave him two. The first puff was unpleasant, but by the third, his fingers had stopped shaking.

Now he smokes more than a pack a day, "hidden" from Sam; the last discussion about the subject was enough. All his clothes reek of tobacco, but at least he smells something. 

They are in Martinsville, Indiana, when Sam opens the door to the room and freezes outside. Dean is with a girl. In Sam's bed. Dean piston’s in and out of her at a relentless pace, sweat running down his temples, grabbing her hips and pushing as if he wants to get her out of bed. Sam can't see her face, just her brown hair strewn across the pillow, but judging by her screaming, she's enjoying it. Sam closes the door. 

Half an hour later the door opens again, the girl comes out fixing her hair, she turns back and her smile dazzles when Dean appears behind her, his chest bare and still with traces of sweat, his jeans unbuttoned, his feet barefoot and that rogue smile that Sam loves as much as he hates when it is not for him. Dean leans over for a kiss goodbye for which she has to tiptoe, and when she returns to her feet, she clearly wonders if she could ask to stay a little longer, perhaps for a second round. 

Sam then stands up from where he was sitting across the hall with his legs crossed and his back against the wall, waiting. The girl winces in surprise, looking at him with curiosity. Sam doesn't feel like making a kind gesture and the look he gives Dean makes it clear to the woman that she has nothing more to do there. Message received. 

“I didn't know you were coming so soon.” A shrug and half a smile on Dean’s lips. Her heels still echoing down the hall. 

“Fuck you, Dean.”

After Martinsville, it seems that bringing girls into the room has become a regular behavior for Dean. Sam begins to think that this is his way of punishing him for what is happening, or maybe not. Sam has always felt that knot in his stomach every time his brother went off with a girl, that sense of helplessness when Dean would send him off to be alone with her in the room or in the back seat of the Impala. Now that feeling has worsened and along with it, adds a wave of dull anger that simmers every day that passes. Sam has always wanted to be Dean's, in whatever way Dean would like to accept it, but now, Sam also wants Dean to be his, he really feels that way, and he doesn't know if it is the effect of the mark, but that feeling of possessiveness increases at the same time as his anger. 

They are in Trout Creek, Oregon, hunting a Wendigo. It has taken them longer than they expected. The cave in which he was hiding was a bloody maze in which Sam didn't know if he was more afraid of getting lost or falling through one of the cracks that threatened to be bottomless. The damn thing had five half-eaten bodies and a traumatized girl who was the only one they could save. Sam is helping her get into the car to take her to the nearest hospital when his watch alarm goes off. 

He searches in his backpack and curses aloud when his fingers find only the wet cloth and the remains of a broken vial. 

“Shit.”

“Is something wrong?” asks Dean, above the roof of the Impala. 

“No. Nothing.”

Sam enters the car wondering how much time they have left to get to the motel and how soon the potion will wear off. 

The nearest hospital turns out not to be so much, and in a location diametrically opposed to the motel they're staying at. Sam watches the scenery that runs by the window like a hawk, scanning the mileage signs, calculating how much time they have left to get there, and diverting his attention just to look at the clock. 

“Are you late for something?”

“Ugh?”

Dean takes his eyes off the road for a moment to look at him, raising one eyebrow and pointing at the clock with a flick of his chin.

“Do you have a date? Last night's waitress? She was making eyes at you.”

There's a mischievous smile on Dean's lips, which fades when Sam looks at him as if he's grown three heads. 

“What are you talking about? There's no girl. That's you, in case you don't remember. And by the way, I'm sick of you putting them in my bed. What the hell do you think you're doing that for? You think it's funny?”

Sam hides his nerves by letting out some of that accumulated discomfort. Dean looks at him in restrained amazement, but says nothing, his lips tighten in a thin line at Sam's defiant gaze and he turns his attention to the road.

“Such a bore,” he declares, turning up the volume, Black Sabbath Paranoid playing on the radio.

Forty minutes of silence only disguised by the music pass when Dean senses it. It's faint, just a hint of scent peeking out and escaping into his nostrils. There is an electric current running down his back that makes his hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles white from the sudden pressure he exerts on it. He does not dare to breathe, but when it is no longer an option, he does it carefully and his presence is stronger with every breath, unmistakable, Sam. 

Dean turns to look at him and finds Sam impossibly glued to the door of the Impala, looking at him with an expression that reflects concern and guilt in equal parts, like when he was a child and Dean caught him rummaging through his things. Dean says nothing, keeps his eyes on the road, and squeezes the accelerator as much as his leg allows, jaw and body are in tension. His wolf is shaking nervously, struggling to get out. 

Dean hasn't turned off the engine yet in the parking lot when Sam has already shot out into the room. Dean finds him standing in front of the table as he enters, his bag on the table, eyes closed, and a small jar in his hand.

“What's that?”

Sam is startled. He opens his eyes and finds Dean standing by the door, looking at him suspiciously. He squeezes the bottle in his hand and tries to hide it, without much confidence, because he is sure that Dean has seen it. 

“What is what?”

Dean scowls with an expression of impatience that is as clear as day. 

“Nothing.” 

“Really?” 

Dean moves towards Sam, defiant, taking him by the wrist he has left hidden between the bag and his body. Sam resists, but Dean lifts it up in front of their eyes, keeping it there despite Sam's efforts. 

“What is it?”

“It's just something for the pain, Dean. Don't be paranoid. After that fall in Albany, my knee is killing me.”

Dean can hear Sam's heartbeat racing and it's making him angrier. He's been upset the whole last stretch of the journey, Sam's essence filling up everything again, he hadn't realized how much he'd really missed it until it's back, until...

It disappears. 

Breathe in again. Nothing. His wolf howls in pain. 

Dean struggles to get the bottle out of Sam's hand and in the fight Sam's sleeve slips, exposing the four lines that make his mark. Everything stops at that moment, Dean's eyes fixed on it, attractive as a lighted sign in Las Vegas. He doesn't know what it is, or what has happened to Sam, but he feels he should. The bottle that is now in his hand is immediately forgotten and his eyes leave the mark only to look at Sam again. 

“And that?”

“A scratch.” Sam swallows dry. 

“Why did you hide it from me?”

“Don't talk nonsense, I haven't hidden anything from you. Do you think I keep track of all the injuries we have?”

Dean tries to touch it, the wound is closed, but the scar still looks tender. Sam gets his arm back before he can make it. Dean does a memory exercise, trying to remember when he last saw Sam's arm. It turns out to be a very long exercise. 

“How did you do it?”

“I don't remember.” 

“You don’t remember or you don't want to tell me?”

“You're making me sick with all of this questioning. It's just a scratch. Leave me alone.” 

Sam pushes Dean, trying to prove a point, but Dean isn't willing to budge. Responding to one push with another, Sam ends up banging his back against the wall and is pinned there by a firm hand on his chest. 

“Tell me how you did it.” 

“Dean…”

“How?”

Sam looks away and Dean is assailed by a doubt that seems more and more reasonable. 

“It was me, wasn't it? Did I do that to you?”

“Dean, don't…”

“Was it me?!”

Sam sighs, the weight of it all wearing him down. 

“Listen to me, Dean. It wasn't you. It was your wolf, you couldn't control it.” 

“My...? But... That was months ago, Sam. I haven't transformed since that ghoul thing. How... how come it still looks like a fresh wound?”

“It's a mark…”

Dean looks at him with wide eyes, fear running through his veins. 

“A mark? A mark of what? What does it mean?”

Sam looks at him with his eyes full of sadness. 

“Don't you know?”

Dean closes his eyes, his hand lightening the pressure on Sam's chest.

“It's a mark indicating that I'm your partner, your mate.” 

“No. Don't say... Don't say that.” 

“Dean. Let's talk about it, please.” 

“No! We're not going to talk about anything. There's nothing to talk about. There's no…”

Dean turns around and before Sam can react, he walks out the door. The Impala's tires skidding on the wet asphalt of the parking lot. 

“Dean!!”

It is 4:18 a.m. when the room light comes on. Sam isn't asleep, but he blinks to get used to the sudden glow. By the time he does, Dean is already in front of him, standing in the space between the two beds. Dean reeks of tobacco and alcohol, but his face doesn't show any signs of drunkenness, but rather seems deadly serious. 

With a slow movement, he takes his hand to his jacket pocket and pulls out the small bottle with the potion, placing it on the bedside table, right in front of Sam. The little sound it makes when it touches the wood feels like a shot. Sam swallows his saliva without saying anything. 

“Is this why I don't smell you?” His voice sounds hoarse and worn out. 

Sam looks alternately from the jar to Dean's face, who remains impassive, staring at him with a scowl. The silence and his guilty expression tell Dean everything he needs to know. Dean nods, the corner of his mouth rising in a crooked grimace that makes Sam's heart pound. Dean takes off his jacket and climbs into his bed, shrinking over himself, turning his back on him.

Sam feels as if he has just read Dean his death sentence. 

The days go by and everything seems to be back to the way it was in the beginning when Dean was transformed, or even worse. The silences are back along with a hatred that already feels familiar between the two of them. Sam feels that with every dose he takes he is betraying Dean in some way, he feels an embarrassment that makes him hide when the alarm clock rings, and at the same time anger, because Dean has no right to look at him as he does right after the bitter liquid runs down his throat. Dean looks at him as if he feels sorry for him. Sam doesn't want his pity. 

They hunt more than ever, and apparently more ruthlessly than ever, appeasing the desire to kill each other with silver bullets, salt, and gasoline. "Where are we going, Sammy?" Dean once asked. Sam knows that he doesn't ask about a destination, but he has no answer. He shrugs his shoulders and gives him the coordinates where a possible poltergeist is stalking a family two states away. 

Dean has mixed feelings. On the one hand, he is proud of Sam, of his decision to keep control for the good of both of them, but after having felt his essence again a few weeks ago, Dean is sure that he would give his life and everything he has to feel it again. It is true that the potion overrides his instinct, but the idea is there, in his head, going round and round. He feels dull, emasculated in some way, and not all the alcohol, not all the girls in the world can take that feeling away from his chest.

The anxiety grows every night, when the damn clock finishes its countdown. Dean doesn't think he would have had a worse time waiting for the dogs of hell to tear the flesh from his bones. He feels like he's dying every day when Sam looks at him with a guilty expression and heads for the bathroom, and the two add one more notch to their vicious spiral of mutual resentment. 

Dean goes out, drinks and fucks, although he has stopped bringing his conquests into the room. He drowns his sorrows in more and more alcohol, in a vain attempt to silence everything he feels.

He thinks he has succeeded when he arrives at the motel so drunk that he is unable to put the key in the door. Sam ends up opening, in response to his failed attempts and curses that Dean thinks are in a low voice, holding him when he almost falls flat on his face. 

“Sammy…” Greets, happily drunk.

Sam pats his chest and adjusts one arm around his waist to help him walk. 

“Come on, I'll help you get to bed, you need to rest.” 

Dean snorts but lets himself go gently. Sitting up in bed, Sam helps him take off his jacket and Dean takes a deep breath when he bends over to do so. 

“I don't smell you,” he says with a pout. 

“I know,” he answers patiently. “It's okay.”

“It's not. I can't remember, Sammy. You... smell so good. You smell like…”

Dean babbles, searching for the words, looking at Sam with true helplessness, until his eyes are filled with an infinite sadness. 

“I can't remember... I'm sorry, I…”

“Lie down, Dean. Tomorrow it will all be over.”

Sam tries to push him onto the mattress, but Dean clings to his wrists, resisting before asking again. 

“Do you hate me?”

Sam stops, surprised. 

“Why would I hate you?”

“I'm a monster.” 

“Dean, we've talked about this before. You're not a monster. Just go to sleep.”

Sam finishes taking off his boots and tries to put him back to bed. 

“It's not because of what I am now, I was a monster before.” 

“What are you talking about?”

Dean looks away and Sam feels his heart shrinking in his chest. 

“I should have killed myself…”

“Don't say that. Talk to me, Dean. What's going on?”

“I've been fighting it all my life. No..., it hasn't worked. Dad told me…”

“What?”

“Dad told me, but I knew, there was no need... I knew it wasn't right…”

“What are you saying, Dean?”

“I'm sleepy, Sammy.”

Dean falls on the mattress, almost passed out. Sam looks at him not knowing what to do, stunned and wondering what just happened. He just sits up in his bed when he hears Dean again. 

“Don't hate me. I can't live if you hate me.”

That conversation does not leave Sam's mind, although, as has been the custom in his family since he can remember, they never talk about it. Weeks continue to pass wrapped up in the same routine of blood, fire, and silence that Sam is already convinced is getting them nowhere. 

The idea haunts his head more and more, as they travel in the Impala, in front of a cup of coffee and, above all, in those nights when neither of them sleeps and they dedicate themselves to listening to the other's breathing and waiting for something to happen. 

How bad could it be to accept what they are? Could it really be worse than the way they are now? Dean could go, of course, but at this point, Sam doesn't think he can feel him any further than he does now. He thinks about it when he takes his dose, and also when Dean disappears and returns bathed in alcohol and cheap perfume. 

Sam thinks about it as he empties the bottle down the toilet. 

They are in Chatsworth, Illinois, interrogating the wife of a missing man, sitting on the couch in that upper-middle-class house, with a few cups of coffee in front of them, while the woman tells them with tears in her eyes that she has no idea what could have happened to her husband. 

Dean is about to ask a question when he feels it; almonds, old books, vanilla, and soil wet from the storm. 

“Sammy…”

The name comes out of his lips and the woman looks at him with clear incomprehension. Sam clears his throat and takes his turn to speak, moving restlessly as Dean gets up and excuses himself before leaving the room. Sam ends up with the woman and when he comes out he finds Dean leaning against the Impala, with a cigarette that is consumed almost halfway through each time he inhales. 

Dean throws it away and extinguishes it with his boot when he sees Sam leaving, getting into the car and starting it before Sam reaches the end of the driveway. 

“What happened?” he asks, as soon as Sam opens the door. 

“She doesn't know anything.”

“I'm starting to get sick of you playing smart with me. Why can I smell you?”

Sam straightens up on the seat and snorts in annoyance as he shakes his head. 

“What do you think?” he answers defiantly. 

Dean looks at him wide-eyed before cursing and starting the engine, driving his baby straight into the maelstrom of the road. 

“That's not going to happen. You hear me? It's not going to happen.”

“Where is it?” asks Dean, as he bursts into the room with Sam at his heels. He pulls Sam's bag out from under the bed and plops it over the blanket, rummaging through wrinkled clothing, toiletries, a couple of books, and some weapons.

“Dean…”

“Where is it?!” he shouts, heading for the bathroom. 

“I threw it away.”

“What's that?”

Dean pokes his head out of the bathroom door, frowning and looking at him in absolute disbelief.

“I threw it away.”

“No, you didn't.” Dean moves toward Sam, his anger darkening his eyes. 

“Dean, we can't go on like this. This isn't working, we're going to end up killing each other. Don't you understand?”

“Here the only one who doesn't understand is you. We're brothers. Damn it!” he answers, facing Sam. 

“That's not important anymore.” 

“Are you crazy? That's always been the MOST important thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing! Now get your witch stuff out and make another damn potion.”

“I'm not going to,” he answers, stubbornly. 

Dean furiously grabs him by the collar of his jacket, slamming him against the bathroom door. 

“Damn it, Sam! I swear to God, if you don't…”

“What? What are you going to do?”

Sam moves quickly and in a second they switch positions, taking advantage of his height to look at Dean, anger weighing on his skull. 

“Look at my arm, Dean. Look at my mark. You don’t want to fuck up my life? Sorry to tell you, but you're late.” 

“It's just the stupid mark of a wolf that's clearly wrong, there's nothing to force us to listen to it.”

“It's much more than that, Dean. This mark binds me to you in ways you can't imagine. This mark condemns me to loneliness if I'm not with you, for life. Do you understand?”

“What do you mean?” Dean has stopped fighting, turning white at times. His eyes moving from the mark to the rising storm that reflects Sam's.

“You marked me and now I can't be with anyone, ever. The mark creates an effect around me that makes me invisible to others. I will never be able to have a relationship with anyone but you. That's what you did to me.”

“I didn't... I didn't mean to…”

“I know you didn't, Dean. I know you couldn't control it, but in the end, here we are. I know you're horrified by the idea and I've tried to respect that, but look at us. Look at us, Dean,” he says, now softer. “We can't go on like this. I…”

A lonely tear falls down Dean's cheek. Sam drops him and the two separate, despair evident on each of their faces. Sam has his fists clenched at his sides and Dean covers his mouth with his hand as he sits on the edge of the bed. For a few minutes, silence fills everything. 

Dean cries silently, elbows on his knees and hands tangled in his hair. Sam can see his inner struggle, his heart hurts to see Dean so fragile, broken, and cursed, sitting before him with his soul in pieces. 

“I promised Dad I wouldn't,” he says, in a voice so small that Sam can barely hear it. 

“What?”

“He made me promise. He knew…”

The conversation resurfaces in Sam's mind and a bitter suspicion becomes more and more present. 

“It has always been you, Sam. I don't know when or why, but it has always been you.” 

Sam goes over to where Dean is, takes a deep breath, and notices that he can't see clearly because he has a sea of tears flooding his eye sockets, but decides that he's going to try not to let them out. Sam kneels down in front of his brother and fights, without strength, to pull Dean’s arms away. He knows he doesn't have to ask, he knows that if Dean is going to let it all out, he'll do it himself, so he just looks at him. At first, Dean says nothing; he just wipes his face awkwardly and shakes his head as if he wants to scare away, with the force of denial, the tears.

Sam is aware of his need to hug him, of his desire to dry Dean’s tears with his lips, and press Dean against himself until he is short of breath. Sam is aware that he wants to kiss him and promise him that everything will be all right. He doesn't, but he can't stop a couple of tears from running down his cheeks. Dean seems so self-absorbed that he is slow to notice that Sam is crying too.

“I never meant for it to happen, Sammy. I never wanted to be a bad influence on you. I tried to get out of the way as much as possible, repeating myself a thousand times that I was wrong.” 

Sam vibrates with the need to touch him and can barely contain himself when the reason for the confession becomes clearer and clearer. 

“You went to Stanford and I forced myself to believe that it was the best thing that could have happened, I fooled myself for four years, until I had you under me in that kitchen of your shared apartment and I had to make a titanic effort not to devour your lips.”

Sam has a lump in his throat and a weight on his stomach that keeps him anchored to the floor. 

“Dad saw it. He saw how sick I was. He should have killed me instead of making me promise something I could never keep. I should have killed myself when I turned, before I put that mark on your arm.” 

Sam jumps to his feet, ignoring the fact that his knees are failing and his vision is blurred for a moment. He pulls Dean up and is already hugging him before recognizing that he is crying again. Dean welcomes him silently, barely holding him in his arms, letting himself get carried away.

“Fuck Dad,” Sam grunts in his ear. “Dad is dead. It's just you and me here. Just us, forever.”

Dean is about to protest, but Sam's hands are on his face and his lips seal Dean's before he can say anything. Sam sighs into the kiss, and the sound lights a fuse in Dean's brain.

It's Dean's hands that are now on Sam's face, and it's his lips that hungrily close over his. Dean kisses him with his mouth open, mixing tears with desire, pushing and pulling Sam as if he wanted to fuse him with his skin. 

Sam is surprised for only a few seconds, adapting to the rhythm quickly. He feels the heat forming in his stomach and spreading to every inch of his skin. Sam sucks Dean's tongue as if it were the sweetest of all foods and drinks from the oasis of his lips as if he had been lost in the desert for years. 

Dean bites his cheeks, his jaw, and scratches the thin skin of his neck with his teeth. Dean buries his nose there and breathes in. 

“I smell you,” he proclaims, raising his head to look at him with pupils so dilated with desire that Sam thinks he could explode with happiness. “You smell so good, Sammy.”

Their hands are wrapped around the clothes and hair, pulling and pushing as if they were fighting. Dean wins his battle with Sam's shirt, the buttons torn off simply collateral damage. Dean slips his hands over Sam’s shoulders, his collarbones, the hollow of his chest. His fingers deliberately avoid the already erect nipples, sliding down the guitar strings that are Sam's ribs, trying to figure out how many sounds he can make.

Sam breathes heavily, his stomach flexes, and his dick throbs.

“Dean…”

The name spills thick and sweet as honey between Sam’s lips and Dean grunts with pure satisfaction when he hears it. With his shirt also gone, there is only skin on skin, suffocating heat, saliva, and sweat. The hands explore familiar paths, but not so much, treasuring them in the secret memory of his fingers. 

Dean pushes Sam on the bed and falls on him, covering him with his body. His hair is spiky and he wears a criminal smile that makes Sam’s toes curl. Dean devours his mouth, now slowly, now faster, as he makes their cocks slide together even under the hard fabric of their jeans. 

“Mine,” he whispers against Sam’s lips. 

Dean slides his eyes over every inch of Sam's body, breathing slowly, controlling the impetus of his wolf that seems overwhelmed and excited. He feels Sam's essence, stronger as time goes by. Feels his nerves and excitement and clenches his fists to control the desire to possess him without further delay. Dean entangles his fingers in Sam's hair, playing with the silky strands, caressing with his fingertips on the skin. Sam closes his eyes under the caress. 

“Look at me,” he demands, “I need to know that you really want this.”

Sam's eyes open, pupils dilated to infinity, dark, determined. His cheeks are pink with excitement and his lips are half-open, lips that are crying out to be kissed, lips that Dean is dying to kiss.

Dean takes his mouth, drinking from it, quenching a thirst that has been dragging on for too long, he wants to take it all and he wants to give it all. Dean tastes tobacco and alcohol in Sam's mouth; he tastes desire and life. 

Dean’s hand is damp and cold and it is a pleasant contrast to Sam's feverish skin as he arches his back looking for more contact. Dean grunts in delight as their tongues continue that frenetic dance they seem unwilling to give up. His hand advances to the space between Sam's legs, caressing the texture of the denim and feeling the hardness that is hidden under it, taking it firmly and making Sam moan. 

“Fuck Sam...., you are so hard..., so excited... You drive me crazy…” he whispers over his ear with a voice full of desire. Sam moans under the worship while Dean runs around his neck with a torturous combination of kisses, bites, and strokes with his tongue. “I want to do so many things to you... you smell so good... you feel so good…” he whispers, caressing Sam's sensitive skin with his words, sinking his nose into it and breathing in strongly. 

Sam literally boils under his skin, the sweat that flows from every pore of his body is not enough to refresh it, not when every word and every caress of Dean fuels that fire as if it were gasoline injected into his veins. 

“What do you want?” asks Dean.

“Everything.”

Dean's eyes darken like the night, his mouth sliding down Sam's neck, snaking a path across his chest, biting and licking as his fingers work the buttons on Sam's pants. Dean licks one of his nipples with gluttony and Sam arches his back, hissing with pleasure. Dean takes advantage and drags the fabric all the way down his long legs, leaving Sam naked and exposed for the first time. 

Dean climbs up his legs, caressing every inch, kissing the inside of his thighs and Sam feels a deja vu of all those dreams he's been having lately. Sam trembles with anticipation when he feels Dean's tongue so close to his erection. Dean sinks his nose into his groin and inhales and that shouldn't be as damn erotic as Sam feels. 

“Please…”

Dean's hands glide across his chest, caressing and kneading the tense muscles under a patina of sweat, the calloused fingers slide down the prominent bone of Sam’s narrow hips and continue spreading like long roots along his thighs, up to his hips, pulling them and bending his legs. Dean's bearded shadow irritates the soft skin on Sam’s inner thighs when his tongue takes up the job of driving him crazy. Sam groans needily and feels slightly embarrassed about it, but Dean's pleased grunt changes that shame into satisfaction. 

Sam can only think of Dean's mouth, Dean's tongue, Dean's hands, and his kisses on the abdomen, belly, and thighs. Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean... rumbling in his head, throbbing in his veins. Dean.

“Please…” he moans, “please…”

It sounds urgent and needy and Dean just wants to please him, to show Sam that he can take care of all his needs. Spread his buttocks and stick his tongue in the wet space. Sam's taste is so addictive that he knows he's already lost, he'd never get enough of that, no way. 

“Delicious…” he grumbles contentedly.

Sam feels like he's going to collapse if Dean keeps talking to him like that while his tongue goes deep inside, but Sam really does when he feels it over an even more sensitive part of his anatomy. 

Sam has to look to make sure it's true, and when he does, he can't help but hold his breath until his lungs hurt and he has to let go of the air in a hoarse moan. Dean's mouth pressing on its hardness, sliding in a cadenced way over it, embracing him completely, is something simply indescribable. Sam never thought it could feel that way, the heat, the humidity, the weight of his tongue... 

“Oh, God!...” His hand went down to Dean’s short hair, twitching around it, but not daring to press.

“Tell me how you want it…” Dean says in a somewhat raspy voice because of the work. Sam's fingers close even more over his head and when Dean takes him again, he leads the rhythm until he feels he can't take it anymore and tries to stop him, but Dean doesn't. 

“Come for me, Sam.”

And that's just too much, his orgasm comes in long, thick projections that Dean doesn't hesitate to take, savoring every last drop. 

Sam's eyes are closed and he's breathing hard, but he accepts Dean's tongue invading his mouth, pressing against his, slowly and deeply, sharing his own taste. Sam doesn't know how, but Dean has gotten rid of the rest of his clothes and is now rocking between his legs and forward, Sam’s back arching as he feels how Dean's working his way inside. 

“Shhh…” Dean whispers over his lips before kissing him again. Sam encircles him with his legs while Dean’s hips continue to push in long, deep lunges, looking for the right angle, the right place that will make Sam burst with pleasure. Sam notes with amazement how his cock had hardened again just a few minutes after what he thought was the best orgasm of his life. Dean digs deep inside, getting stronger, faster. 

Sam moans and Dean shuts his mouth with his tongue.

Sam breathes heavily, moaning Dean’s name over his lips when they are not kissing. Dean grasps his shoulders and lifts Sam from the mattress leaning him on his chest. Sam holds on to his neck and Dean lowers his hands to his buttocks, holding him in that posture that allows a much deeper penetration. Sam hides his face in the neck of his brother, the agitated and warm breath pouring on it, and Dean feels a shiver running down his spine, a strange yearning, something related to the most primitive part of his new being. 

Dean sits back just enough to look at Sam, the kaleidoscopes of his eyes clouded by desire and pleasure. He feels he has to ask something, but doesn't know what. Sam looks at him, riding his dick as if there was no tomorrow, rosy cheeks and lips swollen from kisses. 

Sam throws his head back and exposes the span of his neck in a clear invitation. Dean’s wolf howls with satisfaction and both shudder as fangs pierce the tender skin. 

Sam explodes under his tongue and squeezes around his cock. The orgasm reaches them both at once. It's devastating, it's good, and it finally feels right. They stay together, trying to catch their breath. Dean messes up Sam’s hair and whispers pleased sounds in his ear, licking the tender wound on his neck while Sam is still shaking. 

They fuck all night and part of the next day and by the time they're done, all that's left of John is memory and the guilt has evaporated along with the sweat caused by their bodies rocking together. 

The moon rises high and proud in a sky full of stars. Fly by night sounds on the radio as they leave the interstate and enter a maze of secondary roads until they have to leave the car to continue on foot.

At the cabin, a couple is staring at each other with fear in their eyes, babbling under their spit-soaked and tear-soaked gags. One man approaches the girl and pulls the ropes until he lifts her up, another makes fun of the boy and his useless efforts to avoid it. 

A wolf howls in the distance and the two men stop, looking at each other cautiously. The wolf howls again, and immediately afterward, another one answers him.

The next morning, the couple decides that the best answer to the sheriff's questioning is to say that they don't remember anything. 

In the motel room, Dean is pressed against his brother's back, his nose sniffing at the base of his neck, causing the hair on his skin to stand up under his warm breath. Dean slides his hand over Sam's hip crest, over his flat belly, climbing until he can feel his heart beating firmly under his palm. 

Sam smiles while still asleep, covering Dean's hand with his own, pushing his hips back against the firm erection that presses against his naked buttocks. 

“Good morning,” he mutters, his voice still doughy because of the sleep. 

“It could be better,” says Dean, playfully scraping the scar on Sam’s neck with the tip of his teeth. 

Sam turns in his arms, looking at the green jungle in his eyes, noticing how they are darkening at the same rate that Dean’s smile is growing. 

“Are you not tired?”

“Of you? Never.”

Sam smiles and gives himself into a slow, lazy kiss that has him awake and alert in no time. 

“You're going to kill me, you know that, don't you?”

“But you love me anyway.”

Sam kisses him again, a small, almost chaste kiss. 

“Yes, I love you in spite of everything.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
